


A mission of high risk

by Jules_In_Neverland



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Corobin, Detective Ellacott, Detectives, Drama, F/M, Love, Romance, Sergeant Strike, Smut, Strike semi AU, Tragedy, how Strike lost his leg, violence will be warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-20 23:02:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 95,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13727865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jules_In_Neverland/pseuds/Jules_In_Neverland
Summary: The death of Strike (two legged) and Charlotte's daughter during birth broke the engagement off, then the books' events took place, and now Robin was married to Matthew. Then, about four months after Robin's marriage, Strike is sent on a Top Secret suicidal mission for the SIB, which will catapult Robin into divorce and set them together for one crazy night of passion before he's sent away on a high risk mission that he has very little chances of surviving. After seeing how his leg was cut off in a gruesome way, he'll discover that the biggest high risk mission is actually going forward with his life and managing to build a successful romance with his partner in business, life and love.AUTHOR'S NOTE: Semi AU, the character's backgrounds aren't exactly as Jo wrote them. Traumatised Strike & Badass Robin. Come in and read more Corobin adventures as they save the country from entering a war, and evolve as partners, continuing their lives together. Drama, Romance, Domestic Corobin, Tragedy, PTSD, Sex, Resolving Crimes, Badass.





	1. Prologue

The night fell on November 22nd 2009 too fast for detective Cormoran Strike, as usual too engrossed on his job, in his tiny office of Denmark Street, to care about anything else, the rain hiding away the sounds of his phone rings as, with the first hours of November 23rd, he received his first birthday messages on his thirty-second birthday, of which he had already long forgotten. He had many clients now that Donald Laing was in prison and, without a secretary, all the job accumulated on his shoulders, although he was also able to gain more money now that he didn’t have someone else to pay.

            After appearing at Robin Ellacott’s wedding the prior August 7th, he hadn’t spoken to her again. He had seen her standing there, smiling at him and not her handsome fiancé as she said ‘I do’, and then she had blushed, nervously cleared her throat, and looked more seriously at Matthew Cunliffe, who stared at her with a frown no groom should have. That had been his clue to go. It was the confirmation that his growing feelings for her ex-secretary and ex-partner weren’t as non-corresponded as he might’ve thought a week before the wedding. He had seen then how he made Robin’s world tremble, risking her marriage to Matthew and, as much as he knew he was way better than Matthew, that Matthew didn’t deserve her, he had to go. She had chosen him, despite everything he had done, and Strike had to respect it, just like he had to respect the way Robin seemed to have blocked his number, not answering to his calls and texts prior to the wedding. After the wedding, when he had tried to text her and realized he was blocked, he blocked her too, deciding to push himself to forget her. He knew she had left two weeks for a honeymoon in Argentina and when she came back, she hadn’t tried to contact him.

Finally one of his phone’s ‘beep’ sounds made it through the racketing of the rain against the windows and his heart jumped for a second, thinking for some reason that despite having her number blocked, Robin had texted him.

**‘Many happy returns, Stick! xxx’**

**‘Happiest of birthdays to you, old Oggy!’**

**‘Very happy birthday Corm, love you.’**

He answered quickly to his sister, Nick and Ilsa Herbert, surprised to confirm that his birthday had, in fact, arrived, and stood up from his chair, stirring with a groan while he decided it was time to head back to his apartment, a cigarette already on his mouth as he fidgeted with the office’s keys, locking the door as he exited trying to avoid lingering his gaze on the empty desk, that stood in the outside office like the gravestone of what had once been a beautiful friendship with a very dear person.

That desk never improved his mood, but as he jogged upstairs to the attic over his office encouraged by the thought of cold beer waiting in his fridge, he tried to forget about it and coarse himself to finally hire a secretary, even though he had been avoiding it for months. Hiding one would mean it was truly over with Robin, and his soul liked to cheat his brain into thinking it wasn’t completely over yet.

Throwing the remainders of his fag into the trash can, he entered the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. His dark hair was a mess from rubbing it so much like he absentmindedly did every time he was thoughtful of stressed, his green-bluish eyes stared back at him tiredly, a contrast with the dark bags under his eyes. His stubble demanded to be shaven, which he did quickly, removing the hair from his far too pale face. He then removed his shirt revealing his soldier-like body, strong, toned up, muscled torso and arms, covered in dark hair, and then he removed his pants, did a few flexing and crunching exercises, and jumped in the pool.

His small flat was spotless, something learnt from his 57 year old uncle, Ted Hollow, who had served in the Special Investigations Branch of the United Kingdom’s Royal Military Police for fourteen years and always kept his things spotless and organised, in contrast with his little sister Leda, Strike’s late mother, who, during the forty years of her life, seemed to enjoy the chaos Strike had learnt to despise. Strike too had been a SIB, for ten years, since his mother had died on 1997. Back then, Strike remembered as he sat on the bed with his can of Dooms Bar, he had been the boyfriend of the gorgeous socialite Charlotte Campbell for what that November would’ve been two years, but then he had ‘left’ her for the Army, maintaining a close relationship of friends who had sex and sort of continued their relationship every time he was back in the city, while the rest of the time, they both dated and fucked other people.

Then, as he remembered with rage, on April of 2007 he had been in London for a short period for work, and he and Charlotte had had sex, him trusting her when she said she was on the pill. Three months later she sent him a photograph of an ultrasound of their three months old baby and Strike, unable to reject his offspring the same way his father had rejected him and decided to learn to be a father even if he had never really dreamed of it, had quit the SIB right away to be home for his family.

That August, he had become engaged to Charlotte and moved in with the psychological and physical abuser that was the mother of his future child. He had thought that it would be for the benefit of the baby, even if he lived in hell. However, that December 22nd, the labour had come unexpectedly in a complicated delivery that almost killed Charlotte and that for sure killed Elizabeth Charlotte Strike Campbell, their newborn, who would be almost two years old now.

It had killed the both of them, even though none of them ever dreamed with parenting. Their relationship had already been struggling for a long time, she hit him and insulted him on a daily basis, and they rowed constantly. Charlotte was a liar, manipulative, aggressive, crazy woman, and after that it all got worst, until Strike left her to live in the office on January. Then, which he remembered more fondly, Robin had come into his life and filled it with a light he never dreamed of. They had spent the first five months of 2009 proving what really happened to model Lula Landry, and the last four and a half months of the same year figuring out what happened to writer Owen Quine. Then, during Spring and Summer, Donald Laing fell from grace, and by the time the summer ended, so had his friendship with Robin.

That was the last in his mind before he fell asleep, sitting against the headboard of his bed.


	2. The Royal Military Police demands Strike's services

He ignored all the plans any of his friends and family offered for his birthday and, not wanting to be there when one of them came to get him, he decided to visit Elizabeth and his mother at the graveyard, one grave behind the other. He never usually went, but he knew precisely for that no one would expect him to be there, nor try to find him. The death of Elizabeth had passed unseen to the newspapers. They had made a statement claiming the baby had ended in a miscarriage late in the pregnancy, and since the baby’s surname was Campbell, a fairly common surname, no one would suspect and come to bother her eternal rest. Then, Strike had made sure that there wasn’t mention of Elizabeth on the newspapers and magazines. No one ever even knew her name and they had claimed that they hadn’t had time to think of one. Only Lucy, Nick and Ilsa knew the truth, and it was a secret they shall always protect.

Strike looked down at his daughter’s grave and rubbed his eyes impatiently. He remembered it as if it had been the day before. Charlotte had waked up in a lot of pain, and woke him up. He had driven her to the hospital, and they had found out her water had broke and she was delivering a premature. During the labour, Charlotte had lost a lot of blood, the baby’s umbilical cord had strangled her as she came on her butt, and she had been born gray, not crying, not opening her eyes, not breathing. Strike had seen her arrive to the world, had seen Charlotte’s life almost slip away from her, had seen the doctors’ worthless efforts to bring Elizabeth back, her hair dark and really curly, and her size pretty big for a preemie, and he had seen the doctors quit after twenty minutes or so, while he stood there in shock and Charlotte was wheeled to the theatre in a rush to save one life. Strike had then hold Elizabeth dead in his arms, spoken to her, cried to her, and figured out how he could love something so little that he never knew from more than the kicks she had done against his skin, the last ones the prior morning. She had been alive and kicking then, and he had spoken to her too, told her stories, sang. Then, Charlotte got to hold her too. Strike would’ve wanted to give away her organs, have them donated to anyone who’d need them, but Charlotte wasn’t there to decide with him and later on she had told him she would’ve killed him if he had ‘put our daughter apart’. Then Charlotte had always resented him, saying he somehow was the reason she died, saying that he should’ve died instead of the baby, which was the last straw.

His phone rang again and he took it out impatiently. It was Graham Hardacre, from the SIB. He cleared his voice before accepting the call, already walking quickly away from the graveyard.

“What’s up mate?” Strike saluted. He always enjoying talking with his friend, still stationed in Edinburgh, Scotland.

“Oggy! Listen, I’m in London. I need to talk with you, something really important... NS.” NS were the initials for National Security. In the Army they had used them often for when they didn’t want to scare people mentioning national security in crowds.

“National Security?” Strike murmured, frowning. “What does that have to do with me, Hardy? I’m not a SIB anymore, and I’m not thinking of coming back. My agency is getting really successful these days.”

“I know mate,” Hardacre sighed. “I can’t tell you over the phone, but it’s of vital importance that we meet today. Is your office free of surprise guests?”

His office was, of course, Strike’s first option. But knowing his gossiping neighbourhood, the fact that he still hoped Robin would appear anytime, and the possibility of clients arriving uninvited, he changed his mind.

“Better my attic, Hardy,” Strike said. “Right over my office, same entry. Meet you there around twenty?”

“Sounds good! See you soon Oggy.”

Strike, concerned, bit the inside of his cheek. Although he often asked Hardacre for favours and he always covered Strike’s back, Hardacre didn’t usually ask him for anything. He was a Lieutenant, he was powerful enough to get anything he wanted, not like Strike, ex-Sergeant, but ex indeed.

Strike rushed his way into the metro, his long, muscled up legs fast to take him inside and, around three quarters of hour later, he was making his way into Denmark Street. Lieutenant Graham Hardacre stood by the door of his small entry dressed as a civilian, his mouse-like hair betraying his identity.

“Hardy!” Strike smiled sincerely at him as they hugged. “Happy to see you mate!”

“Same, by the way, happy birthday! How many, fifty?” Hardacre handed him a package of Cornish beer and Strike laughed grabbing it.

“You know, best thing I’ve gotten all day. You wish you preserved yourself as nicely as I do though,” Strike joked, leading him into the building and upstairs to his attic.

“Ah, exactly the kind of cave needed for these kinds of meetings,” Hardacre joked as he sat on a stool and Strike opened the beers, giving him one and taking another himself before sitting on a stool by his side. Hardacre then looked at him up and down with a slight frown. “Are you alright, Oggy? You look... sad.” Strike raised his eyebrows as if he was saying ‘oh really?’

“Let’s get down to business Hardy, you’ve got me all intrigued.”

“Right!” Hardacre pulled a folder from his briefcase that had a red, big printed CONFIDENTIAL on top, and gave it to Strike. “Royal Military Policewoman, Lieutenant Marcia Harrington, was attacked and killed last September as she carried a hard-drive full of important, confidential National Security information to the SIB Castle in Edinburgh. No traces, one clear shot to the forehead. Whoever did it has majorly important National Security information about our own nation, big enough to do a terror attack, even kill the Queen. Now, after the bullet was analyzed, we concluded...”

“That kind of gun is common in the Russian Secret Service.” Strike concluded, looking at the folders. Hardacre nodded.

“Exactly. We’ve been investigating for months and all we’ve been able to figure out is that the Russians stole it and took it to Murmansk, in the part of Russia nearest to Finland,” Strike nodded slowly. “We’ve just gotten information that the Tsar will be travelling to Murmansk in March. We don’t think is a coincidence.”

“Are you sure the person who has the hard-drive hasn’t copied it, gotten it outside Murmansk, etc, etc, etc...?” Strike asked rolling his eyes.

“We’ve got people keeping a close watch on our main suspect, Feodor Nazimova, in Murmansk, and they seem pretty confident that he’s waiting there to meet with the Tsar, hasn’t done copies or anything. They suspect Nazimovaa knows we’re watching him and he doesn’t want to get outside his safe zone, where he probably has tons of friends, or leave copies someone could steal. The Tsar will bring a ton of extra security to Murmansk, making it close to impossible to get Nazimovaa. Our mission is to infiltrate a SIB they won’t identify as such, someone who hasn’t been actively a SIB they might know for the past few years, someone who can pass as Russian, get it close to Nazimovaa and make sure the Russians never get a piece of our National Security info, taking it back home. All of this cannot leave the Royal Military Police, preferably the SIB, although the Prime Minister does know and ordered us top discretion. If the citizens find out our security is on the line, they will panic, and chaos will rise. If news get outside the country, other countries will see us as vulnerable, and try. It’s unlikely that there’s someone in Russia despite Nazimovaa who knows this information exists, so if he’s out of the picture we’re good. Also, we cannot compromise the good relationships between the two countries, which is why they can never know we’re killing one of their Secret Service, that we’ve infiltrated, that we’ve stolen from them what is ours. We have to be so discreet to get in and out, no one ever knows.”

Strike looked at him for a few minutes, in silence, absorbing the information inside.

“I’m a civilian, Hardy. They will kill you if they find out you told me, and I can’t help you.”

“The Prime Minister asked me personally to find you and convince you to be our infiltrated. Oggy,” Hardacre continued stopping Strike from arguing. “You’re an experienced SIB, you’re an incredible detective all over the news leaving Scotland Yard in continuous ridicule, you’re discreet, you don’t have wife or children to lose, you are fluent in Russian, you are athletic, you are crazily intelligent and smart, trustworthy, patriot, and have been out of the SIB enough for them to not know you. You’ll be a national hero and no one will ever know.”

“So you want me to go into a high risk mission of which I may never come back, that if the Russians arrest me and accuse me of spying, if not kill me, the UK will say they never sent me or have nothing to do with me and leave me to my luck to save our nation’s ass, when I’m not even a SIB anymore?” Strike was about to shout, and looked angrily at him. “You guys have a bunch of really skilled people, many of them are probably way more skilled than me, you don’t need me. Find someone else.”

“The Prime Minister chose you.” Hardacre said with a sad sigh. “Look Oggy, I’m not happy about this either. You’re the only one who fit all requirements, as hard as it might be to believe, we aren’t that many in the SIB. The PM was adamant that I convinced you. Otherwise, he’s forcing you.” He added, putting a paper out of his suitcase. Strike read it quickly and felt anger rising.

“He’s going to imprison me for treason if I refuse? This is outrageous!” Strike stood up and tried not to explode and go kill the PM. “This cannot be allowed...”

“He can do all he wants, he can ruin your life. Oggy, I know this is asking far too much from you but we’re really desperate. Please, just do it. I’ll have your back, I promise I will get you back home, with or without the Government knowing. I’ll be there with you the whole time.”

Eventually, Strike didn’t really have a choice when the Prime Minister himself was forcing him and, trusting Hardacre, he supposed it’d be alright. Strike walked him to the metro station after they had some beers.

“When you come with us,” Hardacre said, “It’ll be as if you never left. A Sergeant all over again,” Strike nodded slowly as they walked down the street side by side. “You’ll be under my orders so don’t worry, I’ll keep my eyes on you. You’ve got a month. Get things in order, organise someone to take care of your things, say goodbye to your loved ones, spend Christmas with them. The 26th of December, however, you’ll have to be all set and ready. I’ll pick you up and take you to the airport, to Moscow. Before Christmas I’ll come as soon as I can, give you a suitcase with what your new identity would take, and your new-but-temporal identity as a Russian man.”

“Is serious, isn’t it? For real,” Strike commented, stern. Hardacre wasn’t one to take things so severely easily. Even their riskiest missions, he had always been light-hearted about them, making jokes and not taking it as such a dangerous thing. So if he was talking about his need to leave things ready in case he never came back, Strike knew he had reasons to worry for real. “I might not come back.”

“It sucks, big time,” Hardacre nodded, his voice hoarse. He cleared it discreetly and continued, “There are only four possibilities, mate. One, you disappear, in which case the government will abandon you to your luck and I’ll have to work behind their backs to try to find you. Two, the Russians discover who you truly are and kill you, with the same results adding that the United Kingdom will defund fake news of you, say that you acted behind our backs and went solo and we have nothing to do, so we can protect the country from very angry Russians. Three, same thing, but instead of dying, you wind up in a Russian prison abandoned to your luck, rejected by Europe. Four, you come back home, safe, with our information, Nazimovaa out of the game, rising as a national hero yourself, and no one will ever know what you’ve done. You go back to your life as a detective, this country will never know how close we were to war and who saved them.”

“Sounds beautiful,” Strike grumbled sarcastic. He felt used. Betrayed. But he reminded himself Hardacre wasn’t to blame. When your country demanded something from you, you were expected to shut up and do it. Fix this issue before it became an international matter. “If this is all top secret, what do you expect me to tell my family? You know Lucy, she won’t stop until she’s satisfied.”

“Tell them,” Hardacre replied, “that the Royal Military Police has demanded your services for a top secret mission and that the least they know, the safer they’ll be. You tell them you may never come back. You let them prepare, you let them do a farewell party, feel better through having the chance of doing things properly. It’ll feel like having cancer, I suppose,” Strike sighed strongly. Lucy would kill him before any Russian even had the chance. “And Oggy,” he added as they stopped at the entry of the metro station, looking serious and grim to him. “Tell them Hardy will take care of you like if you were my little brother.”


	3. The news spread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike goes around telling his family, Nick and Ilsa about the news of his incoming trip

Strike then took the remaining of the month for himself. He spent some days dealing with the prospect of imminent death, assimilating it, wrote a Last Will and Testament and had it checked by a lawyer that wasn’t friends of Ilsa, made several copies of it, wrote letters to Lucy, to Nick, to Ilsa, to his Uncle Ted and his Aunt Joan and, in a sudden moment of bravery, to Robin. He then organised his paperwork, his office, his attic. Bought extra awesome presents to all of them and then to his brother in law Gregory ‘Greg’ Rickman and his nephews eight-year-old Philip and five-year-old Jack, even to their soon-to-be new brother George. The thought of George made his stomach tighten. He might never get to meet George. He stopped his train of thought with a few beers and a fag before his mind went to sadder places, like thinking of not seeing Robin, Nick, Ilsa or his natal town of St. Mawes in Cornwall again, or what would happen to Lucy, his thirty-year-old step-sister, who had grown with him, who hadn’t had a mother anymore and who was so close to him.

The first thing he did in December was pay a short visit to St. Mawes and talk with his uncle and aunt, spend some last times in the place he called home. One snowy day near Christmas, he finally got himself ready and went to pay Lucy a little visit at her nice house in Bromley, everything she wished he had had. A proper house, a family, a garden. Strike still found himself amazed at how well the aerospace engineer had done things in life. Although she had been really young when she married Greg and they hadn’t been married for much when they welcomed Phillip, Strike knew Greg was a good man, genuinely afraid of Strike, and that their love was only proper of fairytales. He saw the way Greg gifted things often, the way they still looked at each other, the way Greg remembered all the little things of Lucy and had details with her, showered her with care an affection, and shared house tasks with her on a daily basis.

He knocked on the cold door.

“Uncle Corm!” he yelled as he heard Phillip on the other side of the door asking who it was, too short to reach the peephole.

Strike didn’t have the closest relationship with his nephew because he usually had a hard time figuring out how to talk with children. Now, as he faced a certain death, he regretted it and tried to be extra sympathetic and attentive, smiling more than usual, as Phillip greeted him with a chuckle and a hug, Jack, who worshipped him, following close after. Strike scooped little Jack on his back and followed Phillip into the living room, where his very pregnant sister snuggled in the sofa with Greg. They both looked up at him, surprised.

“What’s wrong?” Lucy asked, alarmed of his sudden presence. He usually got so uncomfortable that he rarely visited unless forced. She was too big now to get up, her swollen feet on the coffee table, but Greg half-hugged him and went for tea to offer him.

“Hello to you too, Luce,” Strike side-smiled. He had confronted dangerous situations all his life. Cyprus, Afghanistan, pure war zones and danger. He swam in danger. And he had never been too scared, never one for sentimentalisms. But he had seen Hardacre truly scared for the first time in his life, and by the way things looked, he was more certain than ever that he would most likely never return, that little George would grow up hearing from the internet that his uncle was selling secrets to Russia, a traitor left to die, or whatever the British government invented. And as much as he tried to avoid it, he got a knot in his throat looking at his sister, who for the first time seemed truly beautiful to him, all pregnant, happy, exuberant, and he wished to remember her like that. He tried to put on a serious face, but Lucy had caught the millisecond of intense sadness in his face.

“Oh dear God what’s wrong?” Lucy was now seriously worried, stretching his arms to grab his hands and pull him down to sit with her, all concerned.

“We must talk in private. Don’t worry, I’m alright Luce,” he added accepting her hug as Greg came with tea for him. Then Lucy convinced Greg to take the children out for half an hour so his brother could speak privately to her. After they had left, Lucy looked questioningly at him.

“Is it Robin? Have you finally decided to go talk to her? I bet she mis...”

“This has nothing to do with Robin,” Strike cut quickly. He had thought of visiting her before he left, making sure to be in good terms with her just in case, but he still hadn’t found out how. In the end, Robin had been angry and hurt enough to block his number and ignore his existence for months now. “Lucy, my friend from the SIB, Lieutenant Graham Hardacre, do you remember him?” Lucy nodded.

“Is he okay?”

“He is. He came to see me a few days ago,” Strike explained. “Apparently, I’m required to resume my activities with the SIB, pick up where we left it,” he sighed. “I couldn’t really choose. They said I need you for this, is brutally important, top secret business. The big bosses told Hardacre to re-recruit me, they urgently need an extra pair of hands and my curriculum impressed them. But it’s just for this one case, that’s very complicated, majorly delicate, and then I will come back and resume my normal life. They promised to leave me alone forever after this, we have it on contract.” He added in a comical tone, with a small chuckle to try ease the tone of the conversation and calm her. But Lucy was no fool. If he was the detective, that didn’t mean his sister wasn’t very observant and her frown deepening was the first sight.

“Where and for how long are you leaving?” Lucy asked sternly.

“Outside the country, not even I quite know where. Like I said is top secret, I can’t tell much even to you because that would mean putting yours and your children’s safety at risk, do you understand?” he said softly. She nodded, looking down. He sighed, there came the hardest part. “And truth is... I’m not sure if I will ever come back.” Lucy’s eyes snapped up, looking at him in a mixture of anger, disappointment, panic, alarm and sadness he had never seen in her, and Strike reached out to hold her between her arms. “Calm down Luce, please don’t alarm yourself. You’re pregnant.”

“What do you mean you might not come back?” she asked with a strangled voice.

“Hardacre will be my superior, in charge of things, and he told me to tell you he would take care of me like a little brother, he will let nothing happen to me and even if others said shit, he would still be looking for me, even if he was the only one doing so,” Strike assured, trying at the same time to not say much. “Listen Luce,” he continued with his voice deep, Lucy’s nose against the crook of his neck. “There are only four possible outcomes out of this. Only one of them has the happy ending in which I come back home safely, only God knows when. The other three basically mean I disappear from Earth and the government will have to say shit about me that isn’t true to protect our country. In any case if I’m not back home by April it means the mission failed and I most likely won’t come back. But good news is no matter what, Hardacre won’t give up on me okay?”

“What the fuck Corm? That’s fucking...! You can’t sign up for that!” Lucy separated from him, hitting his chest softly. Strike’s green-bluish eyes fixed on hers, his big hands wrapping around hers.

“I wasn’t given a choice, Luce. I know is unfair, I know is outrageous, but when I signed up for the military I swore to protect my country and seek justice. That’s exactly what I’m going to do now. I’m the best chance we have of keeping the waters still. If I could refuse, I would, hell, I tried... but once you’re in the army you’re always in the army. If the big bosses demand this from me, I can’t really say no. They’d ruin my life anyway.” Lucy looked at him with teary eyes and before Strike could prevent it, she was crying on his arms, muttering things like ‘oh my poor Stick’ and things he couldn’t understand.

It took Strike several minutes to calm Lucy down, whispering time after time how hard he promised to fight so hard to come back home, how much he wanted to be home. He tried not to get emotional himself, and managed it with only a hoarse voice. He even agreed to stay for dinner. When he was going to leave after putting the boys to bed and helping Greg clean everything out after dinner, plans for a Christmas party already made, Lucy grabbed his hand, pulling from him to the corridor.

“Promise me,” said Lucy very seriously, “that you’ll make things right with Robin before you leave. She has to know the truth. You can’t be such an unfair asshole to leave her like this, not if you’re not sure you’ll be back or when.”

Strike looked at her straight in the eyes for a few seconds and then nodded.

“I promise.”

The next day, the conversation with Nick and Ilsa went about the same, but in a way much calmer, without losing their shit, that only his two best friends could provide. In the end Strike sat on their coffee table looking at them with a circumstantial expression as the married couple sat in front of him, looking lost in thought.

“You know this is abuse of power, right?” Ilsa whispered after a while, pulling out her lawyer side. Strike nodded slowly.

“I try to comfort myself thinking that one day I made an oath to seek justice and protect my country, this just happens to catch me on holiday,” Strike said with his signature dark humour.

“Will we be able of... sending you letters, mails or something?” Nick asked with a frown, his arm around his wife. Strike shook his head.

“The official version from the Prime Minister will be that I’m not there, UK never sent people there, and that if someone catches me there he never knew anything. Besides, I will be under a Russian identity, Cormoran Strike was never there and,” Strike didn’t care about going a bit more revealing with them. He knew Ilsa, as a lawyer, was a very discreet woman and one who could easily find laws to protect herself and Nick in case anyone came wandering, “you can’t communicate with someone who doesn’t exist.”

“If you become someone else for this then what happens with Cormoran Strike?” Ilsa asked. Strike shrugged.

“If anyone asks, I went on holiday I suppose.”

“It doesn’t seem like a very planned plan...” Nick commented with a hint of irony.

“I know,” Strike nodded.


	4. Striking visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cormoran and Robin reacquaint after so long

It took Strike every ounce of strength and bravery he had to push himself into visiting Robin, leaving it almost for the last minute. Two days before Christmas, after doing some investigation and figuring out Robin and Matthew had decided to stay in London for their first holidays as a marriage, he appeared at the house right when he knew Matthew would be at work. Robin had been working as a Public Relationships for a company for a couple months, but Strike had figured out that she would be home after lunch, so that’s when he went there. He pushed the button of the doorbell with shaking legs and feeling like throwing up from the stress, and he waited.

“Who is it?” he heard Robin’s distant voice as some steps moved inside the house.

“It’s Cormoran!” he shouted towards the door. To his relief, the steps became hurried inside the house and soon, the door was yanked open. Robin appeared there, as always every prettier than he remembered, out of breath. Her long blonde-red hair fell over her shoulders in perfect legs, her thick lips parted slightly in a way that made things to his stomach, her fake front teeth showing up a little. She was all elegant and graceful from having come from work, her feet inside some indoor slippers, her suit still on with the exception of the jacket. Strike noticed that now she wore a silver, very, very thin chain necklace with a little silver circle with a small oak inside, hanging from the chain. Oaks, as he remembered, were symbol of strength, of the ability of overcoming obstacles, power, bravery, safety, wisdom, generosity, dignity, courage, sincerity.

“Cormoran,” she breathed out, surprised. Strike saw she was making an effort not to jump into his arms, and he was conscious he was doing the same effort.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Strike blurted out. “I need to talk with you, in private. Is about something majorly important.” Robin nodded and moved aside to let him in.

“I’m alone, Matthew won’t be back until dinner,” Robin explained, not suspecting that Strike knew it already. He walked into the house, losing his breath when the smell of Robin’s perfume invaded his nostrils, and followed Robin into the sitting room. “Can I offer you tea or anything?”

“Have you got beer?” Strike asked thinking he was going to need alcohol to do this, and the beer he had taken on a pub before daring to come wasn’t enough.

“Sure. Please, make yourself at home,” Robin indicated politely but coldly, leaving to the kitchen. Strike sighed. He could actually settle with calling home a place like that, one that smelled like Robin’s perfume and that had Robin in it. He shook his head trying to erase those thoughts as he sat on a sofa, putting the briefcase he had brought on top of the coffee table. A few minutes later, Robin came with two glasses of beer, offering him one and sitting on an armchair at a cautious distance from him. “So what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” He felt her sarcasm like stabs in the chest, seeing how she seemed to have composed herself in the kitchen and came colder than ever.

“I must leave the country, I don’t know if... if I’ll ever come back,” Strike blurted looking at his beer before taking a long sip. He didn’t dare to look at Robin, although he felt her eyes on him. “I’m doing some top secret business for the army. Anyway, the reason I came was because I don’t want to abandon my agency just like that, it took too much effort. I know no one loves it and is as passionate about it as me, but you and I figured,” he opened his briefcase, putting out some papers and giving them to Robin without looking at her, “that maybe you’d like to relieve me. Of course I won’t force you, but if you wanted, all the paperwork is done. Now you’re officially co-owner of the agency and if I never come back you’ll become the only owner of it. I also opened a bank account for the agency, in our name, and put money enough for you to be able to pay renting of the office and all else for a few months, in case it takes a while to start making some money, although right now we’ve got plenty of clients. Ilsa checked the legality of it all already and I also wrote a... well, a will...” he grumbled, looking at one corner of a bookshelf. “In which you’re written as the sole owner of our agency if something were to happen to me.”

He shut up then, and for a few minutes, no one said anything, but Strike realized Robin’s beer was untouched and, when the redhead had spent minutes without saying anything, he started worrying and looked at her. She was focused on the papers he had given her, resting them on her knees and her eyes were glassy.

“I don’t understand...” Robin murmured, finally.

“I’m not allowed to say more if I want you to be safe,” Strike grumbled, looking down. “Just know I’m in good hands, that I didn’t get myself in any trouble and that everything I’m going to do, no matter what anyone, not even the Queen, say, will be for the benefit and safety of this country. It’s important that you remember that. That you know who I am and don’t believe any shit you may or may not hear later. That you,” he cleared his voice, that was getting hoarse, “are always certain I’d never do anything against my people.” He knew he was talking too much, leaving her with too many questions, but for some reason of all people he certainly couldn’t stand the idea of Robin believing the Prime Minister if he ever went on TV to say he had betrayed his country or something worse.

“This doesn’t make any sense, this is complete madness... is this a joke? You’re joking, right? You’re trying to hurt me or s...”

“I would never,” Strike reached to put a hand on her knee, his eyes searching frantically for Robin’s with an intense gaze, and Robin lost train of thought, immersed in the intensity and amount of feelings she could see in his eyes, “ever, try to hurt you. I care about you the most.” He said it before he could think about it and right afterwards, he retired his hand and looked somewhere else in frustration. The confession left Robin speechless for a moment.

“You came to my wedding and left. You blocked my number so I couldn’t even call you. You never opened the office door for me, pretending you weren’t there. For four months, not a word from you. I thought...” Robin’s voice quivered. Strike looked at her with an intense frown. “I thought you hated me. And now you come and... all of this and...” she sniffled soundly and put a hand over her mouth, looking somewhere else, to try keep herself together. Strike was incredibly confused now.

“Robin, I left the wedding because the moment I was there you looked happier than when looking at your husband. I left because you said ‘I do’ looking at _me_ , Robin, beaming with happiness. And I knew despite that you choose _him,_ ” he was getting the bravery and daring that one only got when he knew he’d most certain die later and never get to see her again, “so I had to respect your choice and if I had stayed there, you may not have married him and I would’ve ruined you. You choose him, I respected it and left. I don’t know about you coming to see me, because now that all’s been on my shoulders at the office, I barely stepped in there so most likely you never caught me there. But I swear I could never, I could never hate you, Robin, how could I? I left because I... because I...” his mouth went dry with realisation and he looked panicked. Fortunately for him, Robin was still looking away.

“Because you respect me.” Robin finished for him. He sighed in relief and nodded.

“I _respect_ you a lot, Robin,” Robin looked back at him a tear falling silently down her cheek. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I... when I got in the car back to London I tried to text you, but my number appeared blocked for you. It made me think that you were truly done with me, it was the answer to the calls and texts I sent you, remember? When I told you if you never contacted me I’d never try again. So I thought that was your message, to leave you alone, and I blocked your number so in my moments of weakness you would be unreachable, I just undid the blocking on my way here. I thought _you hated me_.”

“But I never...” Robin frowned suddenly and got up, sniffling as she walked quickly to the dining table, where her mobile rested. She took it, went back to her place, and frantically searched for Strike’s contact. She still looked as if he had blocked her, as she could not see his Whatsapp profile. On a whim, she went to her own configuration and... she had Strike’s number blocked. “Your number is blocked.” She breathed out.

“I know, that’s what I just said...” Strike whispered confused.

“Fixed. But Corm, I didn’t do it, I never blocked you,” Robin undid the blocking and left her phone on the coffee table, looking at him with a slight frown. “And you never called me, or texted me...”

“I did! Before your wedding. You picked up and hung out without saying anything, several times. It was when you were supposedly on your way to Masham for the wedding.” He insisted. Robin suddenly moved her hands to her mouth and her eyes widened.

“Matthew,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“Matthew! I’m going to fucking murder him!” she was angry now and Strike was taken aback.

“Robin,” Strike put a comforting hand on her knee, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb. “Calm down and talk to me. Did he... he didn’t hurt you, did he?” he added on a sudden thought, tensing up.

“When we were on our way to Masham, I went to the bathroom when we stopped for a break,” Robin explained him. “I left my mobile on top of the table, with Matthew. When I came back, he was with my mobile, said he had no battery, that he had to talk with his father about the surprise he had for me for our honeymoon and asked for my password. So I lent him my phone and he disappeared to the men’s bathroom for a few minutes. Then I stopped paying attention to my phone because of all the wedding stuff and I didn’t have a chance to sit and calmly look at it until the reception, when I tried to call you and found out you had blocked me. I didn’t get texts or calls from you because, I bet, it happened while I had been in the bathroom that day, Matthew saw it during that time and when he was supposedly calling his dad he was actually erasing it all.” She looked on the verge of tears. She looked betrayed, hurt, angry. Strike felt all of that himself, wanting to kill a man that apparently had no honour, but he knew he needed to make sure Robin was okay with him. It was her husband now. She chocked back an angry sob and looked at him. “How could he? I trusted him, he’s my husband! And he... he...”

“He was just trying to protect you. I bet he thought it was better for you if you didn’t think of our rows that brought you so much stress during your wedding, I bet he planned on telling you later but then with the honeymoon and all he forgot.” He lied trying to sound convincing. He was also trying not to kill Matthew. Robin didn’t look very convinced either.

“What did your texts say?” she asked him. He sat the closest he could to her and showed her the texts on his phone. After reading them, she was sobbing openly. The idea of having been betrayed by her own husband like that, fooled and manipulated, killed her, but the idea of Strike having thought for months that she hated him, that she wanted nothing to do with him, killed her more. “I’m s-so s-sorry, Corm!” she sobbed out. “I-I, I n-never w-wanted f-for you t-to think...” she said between sobs. Strike couldn’t do anything but reaching to hug her tightly, pulling her to his chest. He tried to ignore how well it felt as he buried his nose on her hair, and she tried not to over-think the overwhelming feeling of calmness and safety his strong arms gave her, the smell of his shaving lotion filling her nostrils like a drug. She calmed down, but stayed in Strike’s arms, putting her own around him to make sure he didn’t pull apart. “I could never hate you. I also _respect_ you very much.”

Strike half laughed half sobbed in relief against her hair, and she did the same. Respect. And somehow it seemed to convey much more, maybe a secret affection and care beyond the simple partnership agreement.

“Then stop crying and cheer the fuck up,” Strike grumbled hoarsely, making her laugh. They separated a little and Strike, before he could think about it and stop himself, was rubbing the tears away from Robin’s cheeks with his thumbs. “A woman so valuable shouldn’t be made feel bad.” He said apologetically as Robin looked at him between surprised and glad. She smiled a little and nodded.

“Thanks,” Robin murmured. She took a deep breath and squeezed his knee. “I’ve missed you, giant.”

“I’ve missed you too...” Strike replied sincerely. So now they were opening up. Well, it didn’t seem to make him as awkward as these things usually made him. Robin was different. She was trustworthy, honest, she never looked at him with sad eyes or pity. She had also been just months away from graduating in psychology. She understood. “What a joke isn’t it? The two finest detectives in London getting fooled so stupidly, losing so much time when we could’ve been having fun all along, and now that we’re finally okay, I don’t know if I’ll see you again.” Robin nodded with a sad smile.

“You called me a detective,” she commented with glassy eyes.

“Because you are, but if you start crying again I’ll take it back,” he giggled with his own eyes glassy, and she chuckled. She felt the warmth and cheerfulness come back to her after so many months. “So how’s being married?” Robin sighed.

“I thought we’d get better then. He was so cheerful when you disappeared, damn bastard... but we row all the time. I’m never something enough for him. If I bring more money then I’m not home enough, if I get along with my workmates, we’re back to his unjustified jealousy, if I make too much money, then he feels inferior. Damn insecure. And now, this thingy with my phone... last straw, you know?” Robin commented sadly. Strike felt stupid for having asked and Robin seemed to detect his regret and said: “Thanks for caring, though. I have no friends aside from you. And without you... I’ve been kind of lonely.” She giggled in a sad, pathetic way, and Strike frowned, reaching a hand to squeeze one of Robin’s between his. He hated Matthew. He acted as a complete abuser, isolating her, making her feel not enough... he wanted to kill him. He decided it wasn’t time to be all nice and polite, but to be the friend she needed. Strike had always supposed Robin had plenty of good friends, why wouldn’t she? All his people adored her, she was adorable. And now that he knew how lonely she was, he just wanted to make sure he was worth a bunch of friends.

“Robin,” he said with his deep voice, making her look at her. She looked between immensely devastated and also relieved and comfortable. Like a kitty that’s been kicked out all night and then in the morning someone takes them home, and as happy as they are, they’re still hurt, scared, sad. “If I never come back, you have to promise me that you’ll be with someone who deserves you. Someone who doesn’t make you feel like you aren’t good enough. Because you are more than enough, you’re intelligent, smart, brave, strong... and you should be with someone who doesn’t stop you from being all of that. Who doesn’t try to bring you down and make you feel any less, someone you can trust, who doesn’t manipulate you, someone who truly values you and feels proud of who you are, not afraid of your superiority, someone loyal to you. So promise me you’ll fight for what you deserve and won’t settle for less, because you’re still young, you have all your life ahead, and now that I see mine get into a practically suicide mission so young I see so clearly that there’s no time to lose. You don’t want to spend what’s left of yours with someone who truly doesn’t make you happy.”

Robin looked at him full of emotion, speechless, and nodded.

“I swear.” She whispered tearfully. Strike nodded, hugging her again.

“When you said ‘I do’ at your wedding, looking at me. That’s how you should be looking your entire wedding day. And the enthusiasm you show for our cases, the passion, the energy... that’s how you should be about planning a wedding and a life with someone else. Trust me in this, okay?” Robin nodded against his shoulder and he hugged her tightly. “I know you love him, I know... but I can’t leave knowing you’ll stay with someone who abuses you. You studied it. You know what he’s doing. Making sure you have no one but him. Making you depend on him. Manipulating you, making you feel bad, guilty, inferior. Beating you up psychologically, telling you how to be with your workmates, making it your duty to please him while fucking someone else behind your back. I won’t leave and let you be abused. If he does one more thing to you, Robin, I’m not sure I won’t kill him because... because...” he breathed in deeply and hugged her even tighter, but she didn’t complain. “I must represent the bunch of friends you should have, and no good friend would leave you to suffer. I’m so much to you... and you should know you’re so much to me too.”

“How much?” Robin murmured. She was taking advantage of his moment, possibly alcohol-induced, of openness.

“More than words can express,” Strike answered firmly. “But all you need to know is that no matter where or how I am... we’re partners. We take care of each other, we have each other’s backs, we’re there to save each other’s ass when trouble comes, even murderers, remember? We’ve always done that. No one else represents so much to me. No one else has so much value to me, and is irreplaceable to the level of making me so afraid of risking you and losing you. Us.” Robin nodded and pulled apart.

This time, he saw her full of determination and resolve, a newfound courage.

“You’re right, absolutely right,” Robin nodded firmly, rubbing her eyes. “No more crying. I’m going to kick him out. I’m going to quit my job, and I’m going to care for the agency... so when you come back, because you will,” she locked eyes with him and he smiled. “You’ll be amazed by how great it is.”

“I can’t wait. I bet after all you’ve done you still manage to impress me a little further, won’t you?”

“You can bet,” Robin smiled sincerely, strongly. “Partners. We have each other’s backs.” She repeated.

“Always.” He playfully pinched her cheek.

“I’ll be alright,” Robin squeezed his thigh, her cheek leaning against his hand. “I can live in the office. Or your attic. Anything to get away from Mr. Manipulative Arsehole.” Strike laughed.

“The attic’s been sold to leave money for the office, but sure you can live there. The music at night is nice.” Strike smiled and she laughed. “I’m sure Ilsa, Nick and even my sister would love to host you, though. They’ve been insisting for me to see you and make things right. They adore you. They’re your friends too, you know?” Robin smiled full of newfound hopes, her face lightening up.

“Really?”

“Sure. You’re charming, how would they not adore you?” Strike smiled at her. “In fact, now that I remember, they all insisted you had their numbers, in case you ever need anything.” Strike sent Robin the contacts, grabbing his phone. “I also sent you Hardacre’s. He’ll look after me, he’s my boss now I suppose. That way you’ll always get to be informed. And I want you to lean on Lucy, Nick, Ilsa. Let them help you. Let them be your friends. If I can’t be here, they’re the next best thing. And if you’re really leaving that arsehole, as you put so nicely...” she laughed. “Lucy’s hosting a Christmas party that I suspect will become a sad farewell party. Your presence would be a relief for me.” Robin giggled, slapping his chest playfully, and he grinned. He loved the sound of her laugh, the way she seemed to be so happy suddenly.

“I’ll be there. Maybe Ilsa can help me with the divorce papers...” Robin nodded for herself. “You know, the night you and Matthew meet... it was as if I could see him through your eyes. Not through the eyes of a teenager who idolizes the prettiest boy in class, you know? This job... it gave me a sense of purpose. A chance to be my real me. I won’t let him destroy all of that. Not now that I know who I really am.” Strike nodded, relieved. “You go, do what you have to do and come back. I’ll handle everything here, take care of your people... we’ll look after each other, I guess. And when you come back, we’ll be waiting for you, all set and ready.”


	5. Christmas farewells

Before Christmas, Hardacre was back at Strike’s with his new documentation as a Russian man, a suitcase full of the clothes and stuff this Russian man should have, and an appointment to be on the 26th picked up and taken to the military airport in London, for the delivery of equipment and anything else he might need, a chance for final farewells, and then straight into the plane.

The exact day before Christmas, Robin came into the office so he could explain her where everything in the inner office was, since she didn’t usually manage things there, and then, during a beer at the Tottenham afterwards, she cheerfully told him Matthew and her and finally separated, formally, and she had officially quit her job. They’d sell the flat and each would get half of the money they got from it. It hadn’t been easy, Matthew had been enraged, but she told him excitedly how powerful, strong and determined she had felt, and how he had already picked up his stuff and left, his pride on the floor. She had quickly found a small flat in Fulham inside her budget, rented by a friend she had made at work, and as for Strike, he was sleeping in his office again.

“I’ve got something for you,” Robin commented sitting on his deck, moving her hands to her neck and tacking off his oak necklace. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, standing in front of her, and she smiled holding his hand palm up and putting the necklace on top. “My personal defence teacher gave it to me on the last day of the course. I’ve had it ever since, only stopped wearing when Matthew convinced me saying it wasn’t pretty enough. But I love it and I started it wearing again after the wedding, thinking of how I survived Laing’s attack. You know what’s the meaning of the oak right?” Strike nodded, touched. “I want you to keep it, I don’t know, take it as a birthday present or something... It’ll help you come back home.” Strike locked eyes with her. He could hardly breathe by the way she was looking at him, as if she was trying to say so many things. Robin managed a small sad smile and shrugged. “That way you won’t forget me for as long as you’re gone either, uh?” Strike chuckled.

“As if I could ever forget you,” Strike replied sincerely. “I love this... thank you, Robin. It means a lot. Help me put it on?” Robin smiled taking it again and standing up behind Strike, who crutched a little, making her laugh, so she could put it on. Once it was on Strike turned around and looked down at the necklace. It fit so nicely with him, the oak hung just below his clavicles, hiding between his chest mane and his clothes. Robin smiled at him. They stared at each other for a moment, and Strike felt they had come so close, like magnets. Her eyes fixed on his lips, his eyes landed on her lips... and he cleared his throat. “Uh, I have something for you too.”

Strike walked nervously to his desk, now Robin’s, opened the first drawer, and pulled out a closed envelope, handing it to her.

“Oh, what is this?” Robin chuckled opening the envelope. “Another dress?” she joked with the tongue between her teeth in a way that made him shiver and let out a nervous laugh.

“The letter is for you to read it when I’m already gone. And then there’re three passes for a weekend at a health resort. Take Ilsa and Lucy, girls’ weekend or something. And have fun.” Robin grinned, touched, and nodded. She felt touched, knowing he had done it thinking of her not being alone and having people to count on.

On Christmas Day, Strike jumped off his inflatable mattress on his office and wore his very best Italian suit, black with a dark green tie that went with his eyes, and a dark gray waistcoat. He wanted to be remembered in his very best if this was his last Christmas. He fastened his watch in his wrist, hid the necklace between his underwear t-shirt and his white shirt, and made his best effort for his curly hair to look reasonably nice, his beard neatly trimmed. Next, he bought a bouquet of flowers and went to pick Robin up at her place, a new, tiny apartment, she had just gotten in Fulham. When the door opened, he looked at her, astonished. She was beautiful as always, her hair wavier than usual and falling gracefully, the green dress he bought her on under her long, beige coat. Robin gave him a light laugh.

“We synchronized!” she commented pointing as his tie. He smiled and shrugged, handing her the flowers.

“Merry Christmas, Robin.”

As Robin took them visibly touched, Strike thought with pride about how she had taken home the bouquet of flowers he had gotten to re-enact Landry’s murder and she had thrown away the flowers Matthew sent her.

“They’re beautiful thanks!” Robin grinned happily. “I’ll put them in a vase, come in if you want.”

He entered the flat, a modest one in a fifth floor of an apartment with a working elevator and nice views. The flat was really tiny, compared to Robin’s old house, and yet bigger than his old attic, and lacked furniture, having instead a ton of boxes In the same room was a small sofa with a coffee table and a big bed in the other side. There were two doors, one for a small bathroom and one for a small kitchen, and that was it. There was one small window in the kitchen and a small balcony in the living room, by the bed, and there was no more natural light.

“Your place is really nice,” Strike commented. “Will you stay here?”

“Thanks,” Robin put the flowers in a glass vase on a bookshelf. “At first, I thought of making it temporary, but I might stay. In the end, I’ll be busy at the office to come much, don’t you think? And it’s just me, is big enough.” Strike nodded, smiling a little.

“I think it’s good. And safe neighbourhood, and there’s a security camera in the main entrance of the building so no Laings.” Robin chuckled, nodding and grabbing a plastic bag she had on the sofa. “What’s that?”

“The presents, of course,” Robin said matter-of-factly. Merry Christmas, Cormoran _Blue_ ,” she added jokingly squeezing his arm as she went towards the door, holding it open for him. “Let’s go?” Noticing he hadn’t even removed his coat, he nodded and followed her outside.

Strike paid for a taxi and they were in Bromley shortly after. They had been doing small talk, light-heartedly, the whole trip there, and Strike thought the trip had never been so short. Robin stood next to him as he pushed the doorbell and soon, the door opened and Phillip and Jack appeared on the doorstep, wearing pretty sweaters, their black hair a mess and their big blue eyes fixed on them, mischievous smiles on their faces.

“Merry Christmas!” the boys shouted. Robin giggled elbowing Strike playfully.

“Merry Christmas!” Strike returned. “Phil, Jack, this is my friend Robin.”

“Hi! Merry Christmas!” Robin smiled warmly at them and they returned it, blushing.

“I don’t think they’ve ever seen a girl so pretty in their life,” Strike murmured to Robin’s ear, making her blush. Lucy appeared shortly after, dressed with a stunning dark blue dress.

“Hi!” Lucy smiled at them and reached to hug Robin. “It’s so nice to see you again! I’ve missed you!”

“You too!” they pulled apart and Lucy kissed Strike’s cheek. “Woah, you look wonderful, when’s the baby due?”

“March,” Lucy grinned happily and let them inside.

Inside, they were greeted by Nick, Ilsa and Greg.

“That’s it?” Strike asked, relieved, looking at his sister. “You said party...”

“Yes, but then my wonderful husband reminded me how this is also in your honour and you’ll be an uncomfortable tortoise in its shell if someone else comes.” Lucy commented, making them laugh. “So how have you been Robin? Strike said you’re divorcing?” she continued, changing topics and giving Robin a glass of wine as they all sat in the sitting room, Strike quick to accept Jack on his lap, showing him some book with drawings that he liked. In the meantime Greg ran to put the presents Robin had brought discreetly under the tree while the kids were distracted.

“I’m free and happy, yes, we’re divorcing. Bittersweet, because I do care a lot for him,” Robin shrugged. “But my family understood and honestly, it’s been a relief so far, not having to change my laptop’s password constantly, not having to worry for having important calls erased from my phone, etc.” Ilsa frowned.

“He sounds awful,” Ilsa murmured.

“Yeah, took me long enough. He’s just the typical prince-looking guy who you think is a gentleman and then he isn’t.”

“What a shame... how long was it?” Lucy asked casually. Robin, who truly felt as if she was with life-long friends, didn’t mind the questioning, since she knew it came from care and not from gossiping, like Sarah Shadlock’s.

“Ten years, the last four months married. Well, technically, we’re _still_ married, but not for long.” Robin answered. Then she chuckled looking mischievously at Strike. “Not all of us are so smart to leave before the wedding.”

“Best decision I ever made,” Strike laughed. “Well, that and hiring you.” Robin blushed and nodded.

“And now you got the whole agency,” Nick moved his cup to Robin as if toasting, chuckling. Robin smiled sadly.

“Not exactly the way I envisioned things, but well. Hopefully is temporary.”

“Are you still leaving tomorrow?” asked Greg, coming back and sitting with Phil on his lap.

“Yeah. I have three months, more or less. Hopefully I’ll be quicker and resolve business sooner, I’m going to miss Dooms’ Bar.” Strike tried to enlighten the mood. It was Christmas, after all.

“Have they told you already where you’re going?” Robin asked.

“Yes, but it’s confidential,” Strike looked apologetically. “You’ll figure it out though, you’re a detective.” He added challenging. He knew he wasn’t supposed to tell, but he couldn’t imagine knowing the country would be dangerous really. And in that room, everyone was trustworthy. “Technically I won’t tell you, but I won’t say no if you figure it out.” Robin raised her eyebrows, looking daring, accepting the challenge.

“Alright, I like challenges...” Robin took a sip of her wine. The others observed, expectant. “Well you mentioned it was for the benefit of our country, so it can only be outside Europe, because European countries are allies and wouldn’t try to threaten us. Australia is of course ruled out and so is America, since it has to be somewhere with a different language or else, they would’ve had it easier to find someone other than you for the job.” Strike nodded, satisfied, and Robin smiled. “It’s not a warm place because I saw a suitcase in your office full of winter clothes.”

“Oh, spying on me?” Strike faked surprise. He had purposely left clues around the office so she could know more than anyone else.

“Yeah, like you didn’t leave it for me to see, giving me the keys of the office the same day,” Robin laughed. “So it’s cold and it’s not European nor American. I’m going to rule out Canada, and also the Northern Pole, I think. That leaves us with... Russia? Historically everyone has problems with Russia.” Strike smiled.

“Are you sure?” Strike challenged. She looked at him in the eyes.

“If I also have in count that you’ve been leaving Russian classic books around the office, then yes.” She added with a chuckle.

“She’s good mate,” Nick said impressed.

“She nailed it?” Lucy asked. “You’re going to Russia?”

“Uh...” Strike shrugged. “No, Cormoran Strike is going on a trip around the world. However, Nikolái Borzov really likes his native city of Moscow.”

“Oh my God!” Lucy gasped. Strike drank from his beer and got serious.

“Top Secret, Lucy. I’m serious. It’s important you all understand the gravity of the situation. If I can’t manage for things to not get out of hand, people will come making questions and the less you know the better because they’re good at catching a liar. The only people that know the full truth are the Prime Minister, from today on the Queen, and then Hardy, some important bosses of the Army and myself. Actually, Hardy and I don’t even know the whole picture, only that I need to find something and bring it home safely. No idea what that something really is, because our PM is a dickhead.” He shrugged.

“What I don’t understand,” Nick commented. “Is why you. This shit sounds like a suicide mission and they have much more experienced soldiers, people who are actually working, and I bet many of them speak fluent Russian too.”

“I’m apparently the best detective they know of,” Strike explained. “I also happen to not be married, not have children, not have parents who would give a shit, speak fluent Russian, be of a proper age, still be fit... they were impressed by the amount of times I’ve left the MET in ridicule, it was a matter of time the success would come biting my ass. Besides, they needed for someone with military experienced but who hadn’t been on duty for quite a while, makes it harder to be tracked down.”

The rest of the day went smoothly. They got drunk, opened their presents and, at night, Strike put the children to bed, reading them bed time stories, and slow-danced with Robin, his hands on her lower back, her arms around his neck. He knew what they were doing was a product of his imminent leave, but he didn’t care.

“Tomorrow at 10 a.m.” Strike reminded everyone before he and Robin left the house that night. Strike had to be at the offices of the Special Investigations Branch in London an hour earlier for a final go-through with Hardacre, but then, his people was invited for a final goodbye and a few final words with the Prime Minister.

As Strike walked Robin to the metro to Fulham, they fell into a comfortable silence. Then, one they arrived at the station, Robin looked at Strike with sudden urgency.

“Come with me?” Strike looked surprised and Robin shrugged. “One last beer?”

“My pleasure.”


	6. The right way to say see-you-later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time to go is coming closer and it pushes Strike and Robin several steps forward (has parts of +18 content)

They arrived to Robin’s flat and the redhead served them both beer, both standing on the balcony, looking at the beauty of London at night.

“I’m going to miss this,” Strike murmured, staring at the sky with an arm over the railing, his free hand holding his drink and the cold winter’s air against his face. There was a special feeling about this night, he could tell.

“Yeah... London has a something special, doesn’t it?” Robin murmured. Strike looked at her, splendid against the darkness. He knew it was now or never. If he died, he’d never forget himself for having missed the opportunity. She needed to know how he felt, she needed to feel loved, valued, appreciated, for real, for one, honest time in her life, to know how it felt like. At the end, her only relationship had been Matthew and he knew if he didn’t show her real love, she may never find someone after he was gone. And he needed to know she would always be happy.

“I wasn’t just talking about London,” Strike murmured, his eyes fixed on her, his heart beating strongly in his chest. Robin turned to look at him, her eyes full of understatement, bright with emotion. Robin seemed to see the mental struggle he was having and put her drink aside, which he imitated, walking towards him.

“Remember,” Robin started, “when you told me about our partnership, how we take care of each other and look after each other, how our relationship is too valuable to risk losing it?” Strike nodded slowly. Robin locked eyes with him, her blue-gray eyes fixed on his. “There’s an element missing in your equation.” Strike frowned, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“Life without risks is not life at all.” Robin said simply, before crossing the distance, determined, and in one swift motion her hands where on his cheeks, pulling him into a kiss.

Strike needed a few seconds to register that this was really happening. In the beginning, their mouths just sealed the kiss, his inferior lip softly gripped by her lips, her upper lip between his own, Robin’s soft hands against his cheeks as they pressed enthusiastically against each other, their eyes closed. Then, Strike put his glass on the first surface he felt tactfully, which seemed a plant pot, and he put his arms around Robin’s waist, pulling her closer, pressing their bodies together, which made them both moan into the kiss.

Then, they pulled apart slowly, their foreheads pressed together, Robin’s arms around his neck, his arms around her hips.

“What if it all goes to hell?” Strike asked in a barely audible whisper. Robin looked at him in the eyes.

“I’d rather go to hell with you that spend my entire life wondering what could’ve happened.” Robin whispered simply. He smiled a little and nodded, leaning forward for another kiss.

The kiss soon deepened and Strike found himself falling with his ass on the bed, Robin’s legs around his hips as she attacked his mouth ferociously and he responded with the same enthusiasm. Clothes started flying away, their cheeks flushed as Robin rolled her hips against his protuberant erection inside his boxers, making they both moan and groan. When Strike undid her bra, blindly, he pulled apart to look at her, his big hands on the sides of her nude torso. They were both only wearing panties/boxers now.

He was breathless, looking at Robin. She sat on his lap, blushed, her lips swollen, her hair a gracious mess of waves cascading down, her skin soft and warm against his fingers now that they were inside the warm flat, her breasts, of generous size, covered in freckles up to her shoulders, like her cheeks, her nipples standing firmly. He had felt them against his chest and had loved every second on it.

In the meantime, Robin looked at him, her heart accelerated. His hair was a sexy mess thanks to her own hands, his lips were swollen, his body, muscled, athletic, big and manly. She felt herself wetting her panties against his big, firm erection.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Strike said breathless. She smiled and grabbed a fistful of his curls, pulling him into an intense kiss, both moaning in the process. Strike pulled apart softly again and Robin raised her eyebrows impatiently. “Are you sure?” Robin smiled, finding him adorable and feeling her heart warm. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want. You can say no anytime and I will stop, I promise.”

“I’m sure, my knight of shining armour,” Robin made out with him for a bit longer before pulling apart and reaching for her purse, abandoned on a side of the bed. After a few seconds she pulled a condom out of it and she winked at Strike, making his hard-on jump, before getting off him and standing between her legs. She moved her hands to the back of his waist bands, caressing his ass as she pushed the underwear down and off, freeing his erection, that stood proudly against his lower stomach. Robin’s eyes widened. It was the biggest, thickest penis she had seen in all the days of her life. She knew Strike was a huge man, she didn’t know all of Strike was huge. But fearless, she knelt down and before Strike could finish saying ‘you don’t have to’, one hand was gripping him, stroking his warm sword up and down, one long vein marked in the skin and pre-cum covering the tip. She stroked softly up and down listening to his moaning with a smile, and then leaned forward and started nibbling the side of his cock, his balls, fondling his balls too, licking, and then she took him to his mouth. He started moaning strongly, moving his hips towards her waiting mouth, and she pulled apart and put the condom inside. She then stood and pushed his face against her crotch without a second word.

Without waiting a moment, Strike’s mouth started working its magic in her, his tongue pressing against her entrance, his lips nibbling his clit, and her moans strong as she held onto his hair with the eyes shut close. Soon, his fingers had joined the party, stretching her deliciously good, delicately, softly and deeply, and Robin stopped him before she came, reaching for his cock and aligning it with her entrance before she pushed down, slowly.

She shut her eyes close, feeling more stretched than ever, and it was then that Strike, his hands on her ass, started making out with her and then nibbling her neck, kissing his way down to the chest. She lowered herself a full centimetre suddenly when his lips found her nipple and, just like he had eaten her out with expertise, he wasn’t disappointing on her breasts, honouring his reputation of top lover. Then, Robin felt his balls against her ass cheeks and they both moaned in unison. It felt as if he would break her in two but at the same time it was deliciously good.

Robin started bouncing on him slowly as he kept assaulting her chest, both moaning and groaning in intense pleasure, and she even attacked his hairy chest too, nibbled his neck, took his earlobe between her teeth as she gave one particularly strong sitting down on him. After a few intense minutes of love making, the tension accumulated over years finally getting out, he came inside the condom and her silk walls contracted around him, coming like never before in her life.

**. . .**

Strike’s alarm sounded far too early for the both of them, that had been making love until quite late, with the sense of urgency that only imminent death gave, until they fell asleep in each other’s arms. Robin groaned at the sound while Strike smiled sadly against her shoulder, his arms around her.

“’ime issit?” Robin slurred sleepy.

“Six,” Strike answered, giggling as Robin emitted a long groan and turned to press herself against his torso. “Want a quickie in the shower to wake up nicely?” He felt her smile against his chest.

“Carry me?” Strike chuckled and pulled apart, getting out of the bed and helping Robin jump into his arms, her legs wrapped around him as they kissed. Robin was so beautiful in the mornings. Well, she was always so beautiful, but still.

After they were both dressed they went out to have the biggest British breakfast ever at some popular place. They were both rather quiet, with that feeling that time passed way too fast, a growing knot in their throats. Robin took the morning pill after breakfast, just in case, and leaned against his shoulder.

“I wish I could go with you.”

“You’ll do better staying here. Keep the castle in its place.” He put his hand over hers on his arm and kissed her forehead sweetly.

“Don’t fuck some Russian girl okay?” Robin murmured, making him laugh.

“I won’t, unless it’s a necessity for the mission,” Robin nodded, satisfied enough. “Come on, I need to get to the office, change and grab my stuff.”

They walked to the office arm in arm, taking the metro at times, and once there, Strike shamelessly went naked in the inner office while Robin contemplated him sadly sitting on what had been his desk. Strike opened the suitcase of Nikolái Borzov and found a ton of winter clothes, all pretty elegant and sophisticated, all made in Russia.

Nikolái Borzov was a private limousine driver. As such, he’d have access to the important and fancy occasions, and always had to dress in a very exquisite 007 way. Strike would be allowed to keep one gun in a holder wrapped to his torso, under his jacket, and one knife wrapped to his left leg, below his knee. His plan was simple. He’d be located in Moscow, travel to Murmansk to be hired as Feodor Nazimovaa’s own personal driver, become friends with him. As a driver, it would be easy to gossip and find out where the hard-drive was. The rest was improvisation.

“How do I look?” Strike asked once he had his fancy Russian suit on, looking at Robin, who smiled sadly.

“Still the sexiest man alive.” He chuckled, walking to kiss her.

“Funny that’s not how most people see me. Cut lip, nose broken too many times, face of bulldog...” Strike murmured between kisses to her lips, face and neck.

“That’s ridiculous, you’ve had sex with more women than you probably remember. Besides, I love that ‘ugly’ face,” Robin laughed bringing him in for a lingering kiss.

The kiss was abruptly cut short as Robin gasped, pulling apart and pressing a hand against her chest, frowning.

“What’s wrong?” Strike asked, concerned.

“I feel...” she breathed heavily. “I feel...” Strike nodded and scooped her up, sitting on the chair himself with her on his lap, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her forehead.

“It’s just a panic attack, I’m afraid,” Strike whispered. “I’ve had some too these days. It’s okay. We’re all a bit scared.” Robin nodded trying to breathe better and closing her eyes. “Focus on me okay? My arms around you, this Russian cologne, the way my heart beats against your body... don’t think of what will happen later. Just this moment, you, and me. And if you feel like you have to cry, by all means, let it out. That helps most of the time.”

Robin did, in fact, cry. Strike held her tightly and after a few long minutes, they both snuggled more relaxed, calmed down, and yet sadder than ever. They hadn’t slept much either, which probably didn’t help.

“I can’t believe now that we finally... it’s a cruel hit of life, isn’t it?” Robin whispered after a long time of silence.

“It’ll be okay. I’ll come back or I’ll die in the process. I’d swim my way back if I had to.” Robin pulled apart to look into his melancholic, sad eyes, and caressed his cheek softly.

“I’ll wait for you. I promise.”

“But not forever, okay?” Strike sighed. “Let’s make a deal. If by next Christmas no one has any freaking idea of where I am or what happened, if there are no clues or whatsoever, then I’m dead. You move on and live the full life you deserve. Maybe hire some new partner, even.”

“No one will ever be like you,” Robin said hoarsely with glassy eyes. Strike nodded, the knot in his throat too big to talk. He had never felt for anyone the way he felt for Robin. He had only loved Charlotte, but he already felt a more intense love for Robin than ever for Charlotte. The understanding, sweet, loving Robin, who was always such a perfect match, with whom he got so along effortlessly, who always seemed to get it as if she had been programmed specially for that, who made him laugh, who impressed her every day with her infinite skills. Robin observed him feeling the tears in her own eyes, seeing the way his lips quivered pressing together so firmly, the way his eyes filled with tears and his face, with sadness. “I love you.” Robin said softly, caressing his cheek. Strike smiled sadly at her, pressing their foreheads together.

“I will love you forever.” He answered with a broken voice. He breathed deeply and blinked the tears away. “What have I done to my country, uh?” he grumbled. “For them to send me to die like this. Like if I didn’t matter a thing. Like if their lives were more important than mine. If I was still in the army... it’d be my choice, right? But I left. I quit. And I do not want to go.” He had planned to stay strong until the end. For Robin, for everyone to see him stoic, ready, unafraid. But with Robin, he simply was unable to keep the walls up.

“Being scared is human,” Robin whispered. “I know none of this is fair... but think that they choose you because they knew if anyone could do it and come back safe, it was you. So do it. Finish this shit and come back. Life only sends you things you can survive.” Strike nodded, hugging her tightly.

“When all of this is over,” Strike whispered. “I’d like to make you my girlfriend, if that’s okay.” Robin smiled sincerely at him, kissing him softly.

“I’d be impatiently waiting then.” Robin answered. He chuckled and rubbed his eyes.

“Come on, let’s get a grip uh?” Robin laughed and nodded, both standing up. Strike walked around the office for a few minutes, composing himself breathing deeply and stirring his muscles.

After a few minutes, he nodded for himself. He let anger pull him forward. He felt now like a hungry lion, ready to tear apart whoever try to hurt him and his possibilities of a happy future with Robin, ready for war and whatever it came.

“I have one last present for you,” Strike said suddenly.

“Oh... I don’t have...” Robin kicked herself for not having planned something more.

“You’ve done enough,” Strike smiled, walking to kiss her again. “It actually just occurred to me, wasn’t planned.”

He walked into some boxes he had left of one corner, of his belongings, and after rummaging for a while, he pulled out a small box.

“Don’t propose,” Robin said before she could think it through. “I mean, is just too soon, is not like I wouldn’t...” Strike laughed.

“Relax... is not about that,” Strike walked to her and put the tiny box in her hands. “Although it is a ring. But uh, just, my mother, she had two favourite rings she never took off. When she died, my sister and I kept one each, but I have too big of sausages for it and it’s also a rather feminine one so...” he shrugged and she laughed, touched to the chore. She remembered how Charlotte, his fiancée for a few years, had never had a ring because he couldn’t afford one. Strike hadn’t wanted to give her this.

“Oh, Corm...”

“I want you to have it,” Strike blurted out. “I know she would’ve liked you. Ideally, I would’ve waited a few dates, maybe until I proposed or something... even though is a rather humble gift for an engagement but...”

“Is perfect. I love it!” Robin opened the box and it took her every ounce of effort not to cry. It was a thin silver ring, that looked like a bride of the tiniest plant, micro leaves and all. She put it on her index finger of her right hand, where she noticed it fit better. It was so comfortable to wear, and squeezed her finger just right, as if it was made on purpose. Strike grinned.

“It fits you perfectly.” He said amazed.

“Cinderella much?” Robin joked, tiptoeing to kiss him. They finally pulled apart when a ring of the intercom interrupted them. “Must be Hardy.” Strike nodded.

“Anyway,” Strike took her hands between his. “So you have something mine. A reminder maybe, of how much you mean to me.” Robin smiled tearfully and hugged him closely. This temporal farewell tore her heart apart more than any she had ever read in any book or watched in any movie. She was damn going to miss her sweet giant.


	7. Kiss me goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They give farewell to Strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had me crying like a madwoman back in the day when I wrote it ;)

While Strike met with the Prime Minister and Hardacre, Robin waited at the inner patio of the big building. Lucy, Greg, Nick and Ilsa must be coming soon and, in fact, as she thought about it she heard their steps rushing and she turned, smiling sadly at them.

“Been waiting long?” Lucy asked after a quick hug.

“Yeah, but only because I came with him. We were in the office when Hardy came and he offered to drive me too,” Robin explained. Lucy nodded and noticed the ring on Robin’s finger, which Robin also noticed her do, because she followed her eyes. That made Robin nervous. “Cormoran gave it to me, but...”

“Finally,” Lucy chuckled. “A bit late, but thank heavens he did.” Robin breathed out in relief and smiled a little, not wanting to ask if Lucy knew Robin and Strike were now sort of lovers or if Lucy just thought Robin’s friendship with her brother was worth their mother’s ring.

Hardacre appeared in his SIB uniform and greeted them with a small smile, certainly more relaxed than any of them felt. He then led them into the building, up a staircase, crossing in their path with dozens of Red Caps. He then led them into a large room with some sofas around a big glass coffee table. On the sofas, Robin saw Strike just as she had left him earlier, talking with Prime Minister Thyson and, to her surprise, Prince William. She had never seen Prince William and her first instinct was to bow, but Strike noticed their presence soon enough and stood, smiling tensely as he walked towards them, and hugging them all. Prince William and PM Thyson stood up and greeted them politely and then they all sat down, Hardacre joining them at last.

“Welcome,” Prince William said with a polite smile. He was also all elegant and polite, like the gentleman he was. “I apologize you’ve been involved into this. The earliest plan was to try and hide information from you as much as possible, but as we finished telling Sergeant Strike here the rest of the information for his mission, he was adamant that you were informed even if it isn’t with the same level of detail, under the reasoning that a certain level of knowledge will help keep you safe, since you’re so close to Sergeant Strike to, unfortunately, put you in the most vulnerable position. I wasn’t aware of your relationship and now I understand it is, in fact, the most logical option.” Lucy, Greg, Robin, Nick and Ilsa nodded tensely. It felt like being in the office of the principal, thinking of getting expelled even though they had done nothing wrong.

“That said,” Mr. Thyson added, his white hair brushed back and his expression, circumstantial. “Everything that is said in this room won’t leave this room. The information about to be put in your hands is only given with the purpose of you having it easier to take care of yourselves until this matter is resolved in the next few months, not to be shared, written down, gossiped about, etc. We’ve given Sergeant Strike our word that the Royal Military Police will look after you from a close distance, but just in case is also a good idea to keep you a bit informed.”

“Good,” Lucy nodded. Robin laughed in her inside, thinking how Lucy had no chill. She was as ferocious and challenging in her way of looking at the PM as Strike.

“Lieutenant Hardacre, want to have the honours?” Prince William offered. Hardy smiled politely and nodded.

“Alright, so a few months ago, a Russian man infiltrated certain parts of our system and in a way we haven’t yet been able to discover but that it’s being investigated, he managed to store a significant amount of vital information in a hard-drive. Somehow, he got out with it, but he was intercepted although he managed to run away alive but without the hard-drive, that went to SIB hands, until the Lieutenant who ultimately had to bring it into office was murdered and the hard-drive stolen again. We believe this same Russian man is behind her death. We aren’t sure if it’s a Russian spy but our people that have been keeping eyes on him waiting for the perfect chance to recover the information and bring it back, have elaborated a profile of someone with military experience, someone who doesn’t care how far they must go to achieve something, someone capable of killing, madly intelligent, slippery, with computer knowledge, a fluent English level and who is dying to gain the Tsar’s favour by offering him this hard-drive.”

“What kind of information does the hard-drive have that causes such a fuss?” Robin asked. “I mean, if it’s about National Security then wouldn’t it be more efficient to change our protocols, fix the holes in our security and grow a stronger system?”

“We aren’t completely certain of the exact information in the hard-drive,” Prince William explained. “Which makes it hard to know what we need to correct. If it was just information about our bank accounts we could change passwords or get a team of computer geniuses to block any attempts of hackers, but we suspect is such an incredible amount of information attempting to make it worthless would mean changing our entire system, which could take months, even years. And we don’t have that kind of time,” he explained calmly. “Our strongest suspicion is that there is information from the National Crime Agency, Secret Services, military... missions outside could’ve been compromised, millions of lives at risk in combat zones. He could’ve found a way to reach the chores of our system in the computerized world, had access to secrets, to confidential things, laws, royalty information, national security, passwords... He could cause our entire electronic system to crash. Imagine waking up one day and nothing electronic works. Computers, traffic lights, trains, planes, towers of control, etc. Pure chaos. But what scares us the most is that we have absolutely no idea how he managed to get inside, the computer he got access to belongs to the military, which means our finest experts theoretically made it incorruptible, but yet this happened. So it’s not just about getting the hard-drive back, but about getting that guy to tell us how he did it and make sure he is either secretly arrested or killed so he can never tell someone else how to do it.”

“If this kind of information gets to the Tsar, who has nuclear bombs, who has powerful armies, a powerful nation in general, and no loyalty to us... it doesn’t matter all the peace traits, all the stuff the United Nations Organization or the European Union says, they will use the information. With our suspects’ knowledge, they’ll be capable of intervening our system in a way that we might not even realize until the damage is deep. This could provoke not just a war between the UK and Russia, but a Third World War if our allies feel threatened by Russia.” The Prime Minister explained. “Your lives could be at risk if the Russians came to find you asking the information about General Strike’s plans that you don’t have.”

“Why not asking our allies for help? Cornering Russia, forcing them to talk?” Greg suggested.

“Because if we tell anyone else about this, we’ll be seen as vulnerable,” Prince William explained, patiently. “The other countries will know we’re vulnerable, and they could either try to do as Russia, alliances broken, or feel as they need to get far away from us because the information they might’ve shared with us, confidentially, is in Russian hands. We need to handle this ourselves, secretly, as discreetly and quietly as we can. That is why only the Queen and King, my father and myself know of this in the Royal family, and as for the rest, the people in this very room and a few other charges of the Royal Military Police. And that’s how it must stay.”

“If Strike,” continued Hardacre. “Manages to recover that info, bring it home, make sure there are no copies, and make sure our suspect never meets the Tsar and that he and anyone he might’ve shared the info with, vanish from Russia without leaving any trace, without Russia ever detecting anything, without clues that point to the UK, the world will be able to return to its natural course. Otherwise, war could happen. UK won’t allow being manipulated, let alone by Russia.”

“Don’t you think is a big risk to put so much responsibility into one man?” Nick asked. “It sounds like mission impossible to me. And what if they identify him right away and kill him? He’s Jonny Rokeby’s son!”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have another option. The least infiltrated, the hardest it will be to track us down,” the Prime Minister answered. “Besides, they don’t quite know Rokeby there, and just in case we’ve told him to let the beard grow, hide as much of his face as possible. He’ll know what to do, is our real life James Bond.” Robin looked at Strike, who seemed lost deep in thought. “I have all my trust that Sergeant Strike is the best man for the job, Mr. Thyson recommended him personally, insisted he was the fittest for the job between the possibilities we had.”

“Do you honestly think you can do it?” Robin asked Strike softly. He blinked at her voice and straightened up, looking at her.

“I think I don’t have the luxury of even thinking of not succeeding,” Strike replied. “The first priority is to send the hard-drive back home. I’ll deal with the asshole later, on my own, and then do my best to come back. If he ends me before I end him, war could still happen because he’ll be alive to kiss and tell, and most likely I would’ve died in war anyway so...” he shrugged.

“Alright then,” Prince William stood up. “Lieutenant Hardacre told us you’ve already been testing your new gun, so here it is.” He went to a large table that stood on one side covered in briefcases, took one and handed it to Strike, who opened it on the glass coffee table, put together a tiny gun, and put it in his holster under the jacket.

“Your knife,” Hardacre pulled a long knife that looked fierce from another briefcase and handed it to Strike, who pulled up his left leg’s sleeve and put the knife inside the holster already tied to his leg below his knee. Hardacre removed the empty briefcases from the table and set a big one on top instead. “These are the toys,” he added with a little smirk, putting it out. “Glasses with undetectable camera, microphone and you can even listen to my sweet voice through the side pieces, which are also capable of detecting your heart rate. I’ll be the receiver of such info. Whenever you need me, you activate them with a little push to this minuscule hidden button on the bridge.” He showed Strike.

“Clark Kent style, aren’t we?” Strike tried them on and looked at Robin. “What do you think?” Robin rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“They can’t fix that,” she joked gesturing at his face with a fake expression of disgust. Strike laughed and removed them.

“These are the keys of the fancy car that will come pick you up at the airport in Moscow, and then be gifted to you,” Hardacre pointed at the rest of the contents of the briefcase. “That can be used to open any lock, that is a hard-drive of top capacity so you can steal things from computers if you wish, those are gloves so you don’t leave fingerprints in delicate places, that’s a small laser stick, just in case you need to make signals, distract, anything, those are mini smoke bombs and that belt over there? Put it on, always. It has a GPS tracker so I always know exactly where you are.”

“I thought I was left on my own,” Strike commented, putting it on.

“We’ll do our best not to leave you behind,” Prince William cleared out. “If Lieutenant Hardacre detects you’re in trouble, we have people as civilians around Russia to help you only in case they are sure they can do it without calling attention, being tracked, pointing to the UK, etc.” Strike smiled a little, glad for once. “If we can’t intervene, Lieutenant Hardacre will do his very best to offer any guidance.”

“Thank you Sir,” Strike nodded. “Are these things water resistant?”

“Yes, and fire resistant for that matter. We went fancy for you,” Hardacre smirked, winking at him jokingly. Strike smiled a little and finished putting everything in the thousand pockets his jacket had, hidden all over the place. “The car’s waiting downstairs, whenever you’re ready.” Hardacre added, checking his phone. He pulled a tiny, tiny red plastic box from his pocket and handed it to Strike. “If things get really ugly and you truly wish to die, mate. Take that pill and you won’t feel a thing. We’ll find what’s left of you as soon as we can and take you home, promise.” Strike took it and, with a shaking hand and a nod of understanding, he pushed it inside his inner chest pocket of his jacket.

Strike then looked at the Prince, offering his hand.

“I trust your word, your Majesty,” the Prince shook his hand with a sincere smile.

“We’ll be waiting for your return. Take care.”

“See you soon, General.” The PM shook his hand too and accompanied the Prince outside.

“Hardy, will you give us a moment please?” Strike asked. Hardy nodded.

“I’ll wait for you in the car.” Hardacre left the room and the rest stood up, looking at each other sadly.

“Ilsa,” Strike said. “In the folder I gave you with my documentation you’ll also find a Will, just in case. You’ve got one too.” He added, looking at Robin, who sighed.

“Come here,” Lucy demanded, extending her arms towards him. As he wrapped her in a tight hug, she cried and Robin bit her lip to avoid doing the same. She observed Nick and Ilsa looked sadder than she had ever seen them.

“Don’t worry Luce,” Strike said, squeezing her tightly. “I’m going to be okay. It’ll all be alright...”

“You’re my only brother,” Lucy sobbed tearfully. “Come back, Stick. Come back.”

“Of course, silly. You and I both know if I were to let someone kill me, it wouldn’t be a Russian.” Lucy giggled tearfully and Strike pulled apart, pressing his lips against her forehead. “Good luck with little George. Tell him good things about me so he recognizes me when we meet.” He side smiled and she nodded, rubbing her eyes.

“Don’t do anything too stupid,” Greg hugged him next.

“Take care of my family,” Strike whispered only for him to hear. Next, he hugged Nick. “You make sure there’s beer for when I come back. Cornish beer.” Nick smiled sadly with shaking lips as he hugged him.

“Sure Oggy.”

Ilsa and Strike locked eyes next and she gulped a sob with glassy eyes before hugging him close.

“No matter what, if it’s a boy, don’t call him Cormoran Junior,” Strike whispered only for her to hear. Ilsa sniffled.

“How did you...?”

“You’re irradiating cheerfulness lately, despite the circumstances. Congrats though, I’m glad there’s something to smile for.” Strike pulled apart and smiled sincerely at her. Ilsa nodded with a small smile.

Strike breathed deeply to keep himself together and looked at Robin, who pressed her lips into a tiny sad smile, her eyes glassy but fixed on him. It took all his power to not start crying as he hugged her tightly and for maybe too long.

“You are worth fighting for, Robin.” Strike whispered.

“And you are damn extraordinary,” Robin whispered. “Thank you for everything.”

“No... thank you. If I die, I’ll do it as the happiest man because I had you.” Strike said hoarsely. Robin nodded, rubbing her eyes angrily, and they pulled back. He was about to leave when he had a second thought and pulled Robin into a long, tender kiss. The others pretended to have better things to pay attention to, for education. Robin kissed him back and when they pulled apart, they were both rubbing the tears off their cheeks. Strike walked to the door and opened it. “See you soon, gang.” He nodded with a little smile and a wave and, right before he left the room, Robin shouted.

“Cormoran!” He rushed back in, looking at her. She smiled sincerely. “Bugger.” She blurted out with her Masham accent full on. Strike’s eyed widened at the recognition that she had noticed how much he liked it, and he laughed.

“Bugger, indeed.” He answered, and he left the room.


	8. Meeting Beth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin discovers some letters Strike left behind. Meanwhile, Strike's mission advances.

Robin reached the office, sniffling in silence, and walked inside, following the familiar routine between silent tears. The coat on the coat-rack, a quick going through the messages in the office’s voicemail, and then she dragged her feet into the inner office. The office had never looked so lonely and sad to her. She sat on the chair that Strike had traditionally occupied and leant back, sighing and closing her eyes. The lack of sleeping was finally starting to affect her, but she gulped a yawn and opened her eyes again, staring at the envelope Strike had given her to open after he was gone. She opened it with trembling hands and first, she pulled out a last Will, which made a sob escape her lips. Her eyes lowered to where her name stood in bold: ‘ _To Robin Venetia Cunliffe (née Ellacott), I leave my half of our Detectives’ business, along with my half of our work bank account’s money, my laptop and my mobile phone. I know if someone will lead our business with the same passion and care I did, that someone will be you._ ’ Robin smiled and nodded, putting the Will in a drawer.

Next, she opened a handwritten letter and she breathed deeply, preparing herself.

_My dearest Robin,_

_I’m sorry I left, if it was up to me, I would’ve never left you._

_You are a brilliant detective, partner and friend, even though somewhere along the way you’ve started meaning so much more to me. Ever since you came into my life, I feel like not only did you save my business, but also myself. When we met, I was alone, sad, angry and hopeless, resigned to see my business crumble to ashes and having to seek shelter at Nick and Ilsa’s and find another job. Now, I’m full of hopes and dreams, I wake up every day happy that I’ll get to spend time with you, happy to see you be so passionate for something I had never met anyone who was as passionate for as myself, happy to share my passion with you, the only one I know who truly understands. I know now that I can always talk with you when something bothers me, even if it takes me a while, and I always find comfort and warmth in your soothing presence._

_It’s ironic that is in the happiest times of my life when I’m forced to leave it all behind for, maybe, always._

_But if I never see you again, I want you to know that you’ve made me a very happy man. That you’re the main reason leaving is so hard now, harder than it’s ever been, and that every day I’m far from you, I will miss you with every ounce of myself._

_I love you, Robin. I don’t know for how long, maybe from the start, but I love you. If I wasn’t about to leave, maybe it would’ve taken me longer to say it, to recognize it, but now, as I cry thinking of never seeing you again, I know it hurts so much because you mean more to me than a simple I love you can muster._

_I hope I success enough to avoid a war and chaos. And I hope you have a happy life. That this job keeps making you happy, bringing back the good memories we shared, that you keep drinking your sorrows away in the pub and, if not with me, with some other great company. I hope you laugh, you love harder than ever, and if you’re to marry, then that it happens to some incredible man who truly deserves you, loves you for who you are, treats you like you deserve, cheers out for you and makes life a little more interesting._

_I will carry you in my heart for as long as I have one. Thank you, for everything you’ve given me and that I’ll never be capable to give back in return. You’ve been an invaluable company, friend, partner... and I’m so very proud of you and the way I’ve seen you rise like a phoenix to be your true self in the most beautiful of ways. Please never stop. And never forget your worth._

_Love you, always. Take care._

_Cormoran xxx._

When she finished reading, Robin pressed the letter against her chest and stopped trying to contain her tears. After a few minutes of intense crying, she was going to put the letter back in its envelope when a paper she hadn’t noticed she was holding along with the letter fell. She picked it up and saw it was a photo of what looked to be a sleeping newborn, with curly dark hair and a nose just like Strike’s. She wondered if it was a picture of baby Strike, left for some reason, until she turned it around and read a note written on the back.

_Elizabeth Charlotte Strike Campbell. December 22 nd, 2007. I’m sorry I never told you about her. Charlotte got pregnant once, and although neither of us ever wanted a baby, for some reason neither of us wanted it aborted. I dropped the Army then, because I refused to neglect my child the way my father neglected me. I wanted to love her, to educate her, to care for her, for the rest of my life, but there were complications during a premature birth and she was born dead, and Charlotte almost died during the labour herself. However, Charlotte lived and soon after, our relationship became too toxic for me, and that’s why I left her._

_I know it’s kind of gore to keep a picture of a dead baby, but somehow, I love that child with all of me even if I could never really meet her, but I used to talk to the belly all the time and she kicked against my skin, so I think she liked me. Therefore, I always kept this one with me and now, I wouldn’t want it to end in the wrong hands. Is the only picture I have of her. I hate you ask you this, but if I can’t, would you mind visiting her on her birthday, put some flowers? I do it every year. I don’t think Charlotte ever goes. Her grave is next to my mother’s, Lucy can guide you. If you don’t want to do it, it’s okay, but please ask Lucy to do so then. No hard feelings. And, if there’s ever a body of mine to bury, I’d like to rest next to them. Thank you. I love you. Cormoran._

Robin gasped, covering her mouth with one hand, and looked at the baby again. She could hardly see Charlotte in her, but she could definitely see Strike. The same earlobes, the eyebrows, too thick for a premature newborn, the curly dark hair, the little ball in her chin, the nose. Her face was also roundish like his, her eyelashes just as long too. The more she looked at it, the more it reminded her of a picture of baby Strike Lucy had once shown her. Touched, she shoved the picture delicately inside her wallet and prepared to leave the office again.

A quick text to Lucy was answered on her way to buy flowers with an address, and Robin hurried to the graveyard of the address as fast as she could. It was cold and snowed, so it took her a while to reach the graves. One was Leda’s. The other, read Elizabeth C. S. Campbell. Robin sighed, kneeling on the snow not minding the cold and putting the bouquet over the graves, that were one right next to the other.

“Hi,” Robin whispered. Her parents had always inculcated her the tradition of talking to the graves of the loved ones believing that, in some way, they could listen. “I’m Robin, Cormoran’s friend. Your son and your daddy,” she smiled sadly at Elizabeth’s grave, “had to leave for a while, but he asked me to come visit you in the meantime so, I’ll come as often as I can. You should know he’s a very brave man, the bravest and best man I know, and that the reason he left is because he’s busy saving the world as we know it. He loves you very much and I love him...” Robin breathed deeply. “If you see him before I do... give him a big hug from me, okay? Tell him that. That I love him, you know... yeah, that’s right.” Robin nodded. “He’s going to need you to look after him more than ever now so, you go do that alright? Please... Anyway, I have work to do, but I’ll come back another day. I hope wherever you are, you’re okay. Bye for now.”

Robin spent the rest of the day busying herself in the office.

**. . .**

Strike stirred in bed, waking up in his flat in Moscow as Nikolái Borzov. He dragged his feet to the shower, got breakfast, got himself ready, and got inside his fancy car to work as a driver, one day more. So far, he had been gossiping to conversations of important people in the Russian government, and had found out that the Tsar had speed up his visit to Murmansk. Now that it was the new year, he had decided to visit Nazimova by the end of February instead of March, but apparently the official version kept being March, that way he could surprise any attempts of spies trying to end Nazimova. Poor naive Russians wouldn’t have thought that the long bearded man with his curls pressed against his skull with hair product and his Clark Kent glasses wasn’t born and raised in Moscow. Strike also got to find out that the Tsar didn’t seem to know what exactly Nazimova wanted, and that Nazimova had been an old friend from the Tsar, swimming in honours, until he had sex with the Tsar’s wife, and when the Tsar found out, he fired him and made ugly propaganda of him to ruin his life, so Nazimova had to leave Moscow for his natal Murmansk. That confirmed Strike’s theory that Nazimova was trying to gain back the Tsar’s favour by giving him the info about Britain.

With that in mind, Strike spent the rest of January doing enough investigation and surveillance to know exactly where, when and how would the Tsar get to Nazimova. He left a couple a few weeks before the Tsar, after having been studying maps of Murmansk for weeks, and arrived at a humble motel in Murmansk. There it was so cold that Strike could almost feel ice cubes in his blood.

“Bugger,” he muttered under his breath as he got out of a warm shower. He had let his beard grow out of control since he had arrived Russia, and thought of Robin every single day. Sometimes it was in a dirty way to get some release, and other times he just thought about romantic dates to Russian beauties, or better, to British beauties. He thought of walking with her along the beach of Cornwall in the summer, about Valentine’s Day, that would arrive so soon, about the feeling of her warm body between his arms.

Strike dressed as incognito, putting aside his elegant wear of professional driver and getting as cosy as possible, and walked his way to what he had identified, after days of exploration, as Nazimova’s flat. He had been watching every movement of the suspect for the first few weeks of February. Nazimova was a tall, skinny man, with a face of a ferocious wolf and cold, light blue eyes, his hair golden and short, and moustache.

“ _Hello,_ ” he spoke in Russian, finally introducing himself to Nazimova one day, as Nazimova left his apartment.  “ _I’m Mr. Borzov, driver of the Tsar’s men. I’m here to offer my services while the Tsar is in Moscow._ ”

It took a while to convince Nazimova, but after a few clever sentences here and there and lots of ass-licking, Nazimova seemed glad to have him and looked to feel important and trusted now that he had a transport sent by the Tsar no less. Then Nazimova had him drive him to the port and on the way he identified Strike’s accent from Moscow and asked whether Strike had always lived in Moscow.

“ _No, sir. I lived in St. Petersburg for a few years too._ ” Strike answered in Russian, politely. He had said the only other Russian city he knew well enough to answer any possible questions Nazimova may have.

Then Nazimova proceed to talk of the wonders of Russia, asked him his opinion on Murmansk, and Strike realized he liked to feel important, seeking attention, which blurred his intelligence, since it led him to speak too much sometimes. Strike drove him to the port, and waited for him for a couple hours, parked in front. Finally Nazimova emerged, completely drunk, and invited Strike for a drink. Strike accepted, wondering if he, despite taking a long time to get drunk, would be able to control himself when it came to the strong, throat-burning, Russian drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the support! if you like the story, there's a Mission of High Risk Part 2 written :)


	9. Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike makes big advances in the case while life in England continues without him and Robin and Strike try to be together on Valentine's Day, as close as they can.

“ _The Tsar will have me back now! My money! My pride!_ ” Nazimova was excitedly and drunkenly saying in Russian, sitting across from Strike, who observed attentively. That man didn’t look like a soldier, or like the super smart, observant man, Strike had thought he’d be, although he kept his guard up despite his two vodkas, just in case.

“ _I don’t think it was fair of him to condemn you like that,_ ” Strike said empathetically. “ _Hasn’t he ever slept with the wrong girl?_ ” Nazimova laughed drunkenly and nodded.

“ _I’ve got a plan, you see? It’s always with me_.” Strike observed with cold blood how Nazimova pulled the tip of a hard-drive out of his pocket, smiling arrogantly. “ _Secrets, things the Tsar will want. And only I have them._ ”

“ _Aren’t you scared your associates will steal it?_ ” Strike asked, seeing to know if he worked alone.

“ _That’s why I work alone, no one to try. One copy, not more to lose. And if you try to steal this, is encrypted and you’re just some poor driver, so good luck._ ” As Strike had imagined, Nazimova felt way superior to Strike, who forced a smile.

“ _Me, sir? I know about cars. Don’t ask me about computers._ ” Nazimova laughed drunkenly, making fun of him. “ _I’m curious though, sir, how did you get it? Did you hacker their system? Because if you did, the Tsar would love to hear how..._ ” Nazimova laughed open mouthed, in a way that disgusted Strike to the chore.

“ _I tried! Their system’s strong though, incorruptible without this hard-drive. No, I didn’t even move from Murmansk!_ ” Strike, catching Nazimova was dying to be begged, nodded.

“ _That sounds truly impressive_ ,” he tried to feed Nazimova’s narcissism. “ _Please, then what genius idea did you have?_ ”

“ _London’s Prime Minister, he’s Russian, did you know? From this same city, we went to school together. And now... he’s a spy._ ” Strike’s blood froze and he faked a cough to dissimulate his rigidity, then laughed and Nazimova joined. _“Those stupid Brits, have no idea all they do goes to him and then to me. He took the hard-drive, he killed some chick that tried to steal it, and he sent it to me. Now, Borzov, Russia’s going to own Britain and be even greater!_ ”

Once Strike had dropped Nazimova home, he drove himself to his room and opened the laptop he had been given, trying to investigate their Prime Minister while he sought to contact Hardacre through the glasses.

“Hardy, did you hear that?” Strike asked.

“Yes, we’re fucked. Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

“Only one way to know. Try to find out all you can about him, I’m not getting anything from here... I’ll walk around, find birth records or something here. He must’ve been adopted by a British family or is stealing an identity or something, so search for murders, family records, anything suspicious. And Hardy, he can’t find out anything I tell you. Also, if Thyson is partners with Nazimova then he’s telling everything to Nazimova, which means he knows everything about me and if he has identified me already, he could easily set a trap. Or kill me in my sleep. Or put a bomb in the car.”

“Shit Corm, shit!” Strike heard Hardacre’s frustration. “We need to get you back before he...”

“No,” cut Strike. “I’ve gotten too far to go back now Hardy. I’m gonna catch them both and make this damn trip fucking worth it.”

Once in bed, Strike sighed looking at the ceiling. He missed Robin terribly, her laughter, her passion, her sarcasm, her huge heart... and also her lips, her damn perfect lips. He looked at his watch and realized St. Valentine’s had just arrived, and with it, his mother’s 12th death anniversary. He looked under the pillow and extracted the payphone he had bought with cash that morning, deciding to think on happier things. He introduced Robin’s number, that he knew by heart, and sent two links to two songs from Lifehouse. ‘All in’ and ‘From where you are’, and then Paradise Fears’ ‘Lullaby’. Robin had a secret addiction to Lifehouse he had only found out after hearing her hum to it around the office sometimes. Leda had also been a fan, although not as much as of Blue Öyster Cult, of course. With that simple text, there wouldn’t be a way for any possible spy to think the text was his. Then he threw the payphone into the lightened-up fireplace and observed it burn with a sad smile knowing at least Robin got it.

In the meantime, Robin was out with Nick, Lucy and Ilsa, who was now showing. They were taking advantage of Greg’s offer to babysit the kids so Lucy could enjoy some freedom before the kid popped out the next month, and also celebrating Robin’s latest resolution of a case. Robin’s phone vibrated and her eyes went straight to the number, recognizing the Russian prefix of an otherwise unknown number. She smiled, getting up.

“It’s Strike, one minute,” before giving more explanations, Robin ran to the pub’s rooftop terrace, fastening her coat, Strike’s scarf around her neck as she sank her nose on it, smiling at his scent. She saw it was music so she sat on a bench with her earphones on for a few minutes, listening to it and crying at the same time. The lyrics were the clear message he’d like to send her.

‘ _All night staring at the ceiling counting for minutes I’ve been feeling this way, so far away and so alone._ ’ ‘ _There’s no way I’m giving up.’ ‘I’m right here, I’m not losing you’. ‘I’m falling harder than a landslide, I spent a week away from you last night and now I’m calling out your name. Even if I lose the game, I’m all in tonight, I’m all in for life._ ’ ‘ _Too strong, we’ve had each other’s backs for so long, there’s no breaking up this time and you know it’s okay, I came to my senses. I want it.’_

‘From where you are’ was, on the other hand, a sadder note, a song about being far away and missing her tremendously. ‘ _So far away from where you are, these miles have torn us worlds apart, and I miss you. Standing underneath the stars, and I wish you were here_ ’. ‘ _I miss the way the sunshine would light up your face, I miss all the little things, I never thought they’d mean everything to me. I feel the beating of your heart, I see the shadows of your face, just know that wherever you are I miss you and I wish you were here_ ’.

Finally, ‘Lullaby’ made sure his message ended on a more positive, loving note. ‘ _Nothing good about goodbye, by the time I’m leaving I’ll be thinking I could stay, I’ll be thinking about you every day._ ’ ‘ _I won’t let you go. I’ll stay up all night staring at the sky you’re somewhere on the other side and if you’re sleeping alone tonight, let me be your lullaby. Girl I’ve got stars in my eyes cause you look better by my side._ ’ ‘ _Hush now, speak slow, stay close, don’t go. Two hearts, one night. Wish we didn’t have to say goodbye_ ’.

So Robin sat looking at the sky until she calmed down. She smiled sadly. She knew three hours forward Strike was somewhere in Russia, looking at the same stars, maybe a Northern Light, and they were both thinking of each other through time and space and the idea brought her some comfort. Seeing the number already appeared deleted and she couldn’t answer, she called Hardacre.

“Could you give him a message from me next time?” Robin asked.

“Sure, but you know better if it’s not very specific...”

“I know. Tell him, ‘bugger’. With my accent, as well as you can. And then tell him, he’s a very respected man here. And tell him it’s from Venetia.” Robin smiled for herself.

“Just wrote it down. I’ll tell him.”

Then Hardacre hung up and attempted to restore contact with Strike, who fortunately still hadn’t removed his glasses, lying on his bed.

“Corm, I got a message for you.” Hardacre said.

“From?” Strike asked.

“Uh...” Hardacre thought about what Robin said. He imagined Strike would understand, because he for sure was very confused. “Venetia said,” Strike smiled. “Uh, bugger!” he tried to imitate the accent. For some reason, Strike laughed. “She also said to tell you that you’re a very respected man.” Strike’s eyes watered and he bit his lip, nodding for himself. He knew the message was a way for Robin to try to make him smile and tell him they all loved him and thought about him and, in some way, inform him she was spending time with his people and not being all lonely, that she was okay.

“Thanks Hardy,” Strike said when he felt his voice was normal. “But I think you received a phone joke. Goodnight.” He smiled for himself and removed the glasses, putting a hand around the oak hidden under his shirt and closing his eyes.

In the meantime Robin went back to their friends, a smile from ear to ear.

“Did you talk to him?” Lucy asked, dying to hear from her brother. Hardacre could never tell them anything, afraid that the phones and emails could be read by ‘someone’ and unable to see them in person, as busy as he was. Robin nodded.

“Sort of. He knew if he sent me a normal text or tried to call me and my phone or his was being intervened or something, he could point the Russians to me. It’d be like telling them ‘hey, this is the girl I like in case you feel like kidnapping her to threaten me’.” She said sarcastically, and shrugged with a silly smile. “But it’s okay. He sent me songs, the good kind. It’s Valentine’s there already. ” There was a collective ‘Aw...’ “And then I called Hardy, and passed him a message to Cormoran, in code. But I know he understood. I basically told him that we’re okay, we’re together and we love him.”

“You two are geniuses beyond belief,” Nick commented, impressed. “How do you say that in code?” Robin smiled smugly.

“By being a genius, like you said.”

They laughed relaxed, there was something really comforting about knowing Strike was still alive, still okay, thinking of them, finding ways to send a message even if it was just one day. In the end, they hadn’t heard a word from him nor seen him in almost two months.

“Now that you mention it, we never knew what that kiss was about. Please tell us you’re together and he finally got someone we like.” Nick added between laughs. Robin blushed and chuckled.

“We may or may not have slept together the night before he left.” Robin whispered blushing hard and entertaining herself taking a long sip from her drink while everyone flipped, scandalized in the best of ways.

“It was time already!” Lucy smiled sincerely. “My brother can be so thick sometimes, thank God he finally came around his senses.”

“Well he came a few times in fact,” Robin said it before she thought it, and she blushed again as they laughed. “I don’t know, I guess is the one good thing to take out of all this. I guess when you don’t know if there ever will be another chance, things happen. He did promise to make things official when he came. He wanted dates and all, the whole package.” She smiled at the memory, ignoring her friends for a while.

Miles away, Nazimova was talking with Prime Minister of England, Mr. Thyson, on the phone, in Russian.

“ _Yeah, I met him. Poor bastard, he’s gulping everything I say. He’ll come straight for me now, perfect chance to kill him._ ”

“ _Make sure you kill him. Now he knows I’m with you and he cannot have the opportunity to tell Hardacre about me._ ”

“ _Don’t you think he already did?_ ”

“ _Nonsense, they would’ve arrested me already. But hurry the fuck up_. _When will you give the Tsar the damn thing? We don’t have much time._ ”

“ _He’s coming in a couple weeks, before February ends. I will then. Don’t worry, we’ll be rich and awarded soon._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If comments accompany, the next chapter will be up on Monday, as I'm going away for a few days. We're coming closer to a difficult chapter, but don't worry, I'll put warnings when the time comes!


	10. Confrontation and courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike finally confronts the bad guys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: There are descriptions of violence. They aren't very big things, certainly nothing more than Career of Evil, and even less, but you're warned. The worst is the last line of the chapter anyway.

With the sense that time was quickly running out, Strike spent the next few days investigating Thyson, and finally he discovered the school yearbook of Nazimova where, as he suspected, he could see a photo of Thyson, standing right next to him in several pictures, smiling at the camera. They had been just kids then and Strike found Thyson had gone with a Russian name then. After doing some more intense research, putting space between himself and Nazimova for a few days, he also discovered the Russian Thyson disappeared around the same time a Thyson suddenly appeared in England, going to a British university in which yearbook it was obvious he was the same person from the Russian yearbook. Strike could not understand, however, how had Thyson changed identity so easily, fooled everyone like that, and why, but he suspected maybe the idea of becoming a spy had been so long that it had always been the plan. What he had no doubts of, however, was that Thyson wasn’t Thyson but some Russian friend of Nazimova, a spy.

The discovery brought a new sense of urgency to Strike’s life. Thyson had insisted he had gone there but why? Did he have any personal grudge with him? Was he maybe pretending to be a spy and deep inside wished for Strike to catch Nazimova and prove the truth? Strike didn’t have that many answers. But he knew there was a reason Thyson had sent him there to a very likely death, straight into the wolf’s mouth, and he knew he did not remember to ever having had any encounter with Thyson up to that mission.

With this new sense of urgency, Strike hurried up. He couldn’t lose more time and he was also dying to go back home. He needed that hard-drive. So one night, while he had brought Nazimova out for a few drinks again, he took a chance and, when they went back home, accepted Nazimova’s offer for another drink at his place. Nazimova was obviously trying to put him in his territory to kill him, and Strike knew very well, he could feel it by now, see the maliciousness in his eyes. The Tsar would be in the city in mere hours, it was the perfect time for Nazimova to show his true colours and up until then they had both been playing to perfection the game of ‘keep your friends close and your enemies, closer’.

Strike only needed one distraction. Nazimova, being in his territory and with his natural arrogance, air of superiority and narcissism, had committed a big mistake by being excessively calm around Strike. He probably thought Strike, after a few drinks in the pub, was too drunk, since Strike had played his part well. But what wasn’t in Strike’s records was that he could drink a good ton and still put the thinnest of cords through any needle’s hole. So the moment Nazimova turned around in the kitchen to grab the bottle, Strike moved elegantly and in one swift motion, too fast for Nazimova to react on time despite his military skills, he had put a needle full of drugs to keep him well asleep for a few hours in his neck.

“Even the best of soldiers can be taken down for their arrogance,” Strike murmured holding Nazimova as he crumbled in his arms and putting him carefully on the floor. Nazimova had already been pretty drunk, maybe if he played the cards right, he would manage to get everything important out of him and he wouldn’t remember what had happened, think it was due to the alcohol and not to the incredible amount of drugs in his bloodstream. Besides, mixing drugs and alcohol? Bad combination. Strike thought of killing him, but it could leave too much evidence and by then he was certain Nazimova wasn’t the brain of the operation, wasn’t as smart as they had thought and had never managed to intervene the British system, nor knew how. He probably didn’t even know how to understand and use the info of the hard-drive. Thyson had been the brains. Thyson got into the computer, got the files, all easily because he had full access. Their system was, in fact, impenetrable. So Nazimova’s death was no longer necessary, and Strike knew the Tsar wouldn’t believe him the next day, when he found him drugged up and his breath smelling of vodka.

Strike hurried then and registered the whole flat. He got all the hard-drives, pen-drives, and the laptop, that he found. He got the paperwork that seemed important, he moved fast and smoothly, and, without leaving any trace, left the apartment. He had made sure of substituting all he had taken with stuff he had bought that morning and carried on a briefcase. He had imagined the kind of material he’d find and taken full advantage. Hardacre, speaking to him through the glasses helped him identified all that was important to take and, that same night, Strike got in the car and drove the eleven hours to Boden in Sweden, where Shanker was waiting for him, thanks to a master plan with Hardacre behind Thyson’s back. No one knew Shanker. Shanker was invisible, capable of hiding anywhere and getting anywhere with the right help.

When he got there it was daylight and Strike knew Nazimova was after him.

“Let’s go mate!” Shanker encouraged him. “Prince William’s waiting in Norway.” Strike was surprised. Hardacre hadn’t been able to give him much info in case someone was listening.

“What?” Strike asked. He was about to fall asleep right there as they sat on Shanker’s car.

“Hardy told Prince William the PM wasn’t good, that you didn’t trust him, and that Hardy knew if you said he wasn’t good then he wasn’t. Prince William couldn’t just arrest because there’s proof that he’s living under a fake identity, but not that he’s a spy, not proof enough right? ‘Cause he’s practicably untouchable, and we’ll need more. But Willy did agree on hiding things from Thyson now, and helped Hardy get me here and he got to Norway without no one else knowing, top secret, we’re all solo. Willy’s excuse is some meeting with the Norwegian’s royals, but he’ll get this suitcase, we’ll meet with Hardy and the rest in London, and then with the proof you got, we can arrest Thyson!” Strike smiled. God, he was feeling fancier of the royalty than ever in his life. He couldn’t believe it. Prince William wouldn’t get in that, he’d send someone else to do the dirty job... unless they didn’t know who they could trust. That’s right, they didn’t know how many spies did they have. If Thyson had help. Strike’s smile vanished.

“I need to come back,” Strike said.

“You can’t, that guy will kill ya!”

“He’ll try,” Strike nodded. “Listen, Shanker, there isn’t proof enough against Thyson, and we have no idea if there is anyone else we can’t trust in England. You get this to the Prince, tell him what I’m saying, and tell him I won’t come back without enough proof to arrest Thyson and the definite knowledge that the rest of our people is trustworthy. And tell Robin,” he added, on a second thought. “Tell her that I love her and give her this.” He passed Shanker a piece of paper he wrote quickly. “Hardacre can’t know, Thyson will have him watched... but I bet he’s too arrogant to think a woman can be a problem. Keep them safe, Shanker, and don’t tell her a word about Thyson in case there are more spies, I don’t want them to think she knows. I don’t know who I can trust aside from you, even from Hardy I could suspect at this point.”

Shanker seemed to feel very honoured and his eyes even looked glassy for a moment and he nodded. Strike thought for a moment that Shanker would cry, as they hugged one last time. In the car, Strike had used Shanker’s computer to check what he had gotten and had found all the stolen material, so he knew the mission was mostly completed successfully.

When Shanker left, Strike took a good nap in some motel, got rid of his fancy clothes, and went full military, wearing comfortable clothes and even getting some more material, such as a small recorder. Back in Russia, after a kick stop on the border with Norway to get rid of all the fancy material Hardacre had given him, with the exception of the weapons, so his GPS info never got to Thyson, and made his way to Murmansk. By the time he got there, after all the hours of driving, planning and sleeping, it had been a couple days and he knew Thyson would also be there already, the same way he had known John Bristow would visit him the night he tried to kill him. It only took about 3h to be there from London.

With the tiniest recorder ever stuck in the lining of the thickest jumper he owned, he made it into the room he had let Nazimova know he had rented while he had lived there. His gun was firm in his hand, and he was cautious to approach the room. He walked inside very carefully and suddenly, a hit on his head and everything went dark.

When he woke up he wasn’t that surprised to feel blood on his temple and see himself on the floor, his wrists over his head handcuffed to some pluming, his back against the wall. He instinctively moved the knees to his chest when he saw Thyson standing there with Nazimova. His own gun was, he noticed, put on a shelf near his hands. He observed the possibility to reach it if he could only push himself up a little with his legs and stir his hands as much as the handcuffs allowed, but there was no way to do that while they were both looking.

“I must admit,” Thyson commented with a superior smile. “For one moment I thought you wouldn’t come back. But your record says you never leave business half done.”

“It’s over, whoever you are.” Strike said simply. “They have all the info. They know what you’ve done.”

“It’s not all done,” Thyson shrugged. “I changed identity once, I can do it again. I’ll find another way to get the Tsar’s favour, the British government will never find me. Maybe I could even stay there after I killed you, they don’t have enough proof against me.”

“Killing me, uh?” Strike nodded. “If I’m going to die then please, explain me why you did all of this. Is the only thing I haven’t been able to figure out.” Thyson laughed. Strike had known he was that kind of guy, like Nazimova, since he first saw him in the TV with politics stuff. Strike had always disliked him for that and other things.

“My friend Feodor and I had it all planned since school, where as you found out I suppose, we met,” Thyson in the meantime played with Strike’s knife, that he had retrieved while Strike was unconscious. “My father worked for the Tsar. All honours, luxuries, fame... he had it all. We wanted that. But the Tsar had a feud with my father and fired him, then me, that I was his apprentice. I was dying for getting my way back. Then Feodor here hadn’t been fired, working as an apprentice in his palace since high school, so he tells me, ‘there’s people who come and offer the Tsar secrets, and the Tsar gives them anything’. My mother was British so I thought... how easy would it be? And I did it. Came to the UK under a fake name, to University. Years of computer studies paid off, I falsified my own documents and they were so realistic they couldn’t tell... It took me years of planning. Then, Feodor was fired and since he had given me the idea, I let him hop along. After some more time, we, together had finished the plan. I got the documents, then the rumour that it had been stolen by Russians spread, because I made a little mistake. So I had to hire assassins, have that SIB girl killed. She knew too much about me.”

“Did you sleep with her?” Strike asked. “She found the hard-drive in your house, didn’t she? Took it and ran away... but you found her. Was it that way?” Thyson laughed.

“Your documents don’t lie, you’re good. Yes, I fucked her good, on top of it all. Stupid girl, the SIB can’t be so mediocre...” Thyson sighed. “But we made it here. Feodor Nazimova, my friend, and myself, together again. Then you came and ruined it all out.”

“Impressive,” Strike admitted, nodding. “Although I think choosing me for this mission was a bit... odd. Wouldn’t it have been smarter to choose someone with a less impressive record?” Thyson laughed.

“I’m a man of honour, Strike. I do not wish to get bored having some boring useless investigator behind me. Besides, a man is only as great as his enemies so the better you were, the better that made me. There’s something undeniably attractive about having the best of England after your feet.”

“I must say... I am astonished you managed all of this on your own. Quite perplexed... I thought you’d have a whole team of spies in England.”

“Meh, I don’t need it. We are good enough. Plus, the more you get, the more you have to bribe, no...” Thyson shrugged, looking at the knife, perplexed. “I’d rather have all the money for myself.”

“You mean for us... both.” Nazimova frowned. He stood at a good distance from Thyson, by the door, pointing a gun towards Strike just in case he tried anything weird. Strike saw his opportunity.

“Yes, of course...” Thyson corrected, but he wasn’t convincing enough.

“No, he means for himself, Feodor,” Strike said firmly. “Mr. Fake Minister here didn’t go through all this bother to share the prize with you. He just took you because he needs you, when he kills me he’ll probably put it on your shoulders and disappear. He just said it, he changes identities easily, no problem...”

“Shut up!” Thyson shouted altered, showing the bad temper Strike had often seen him show in the political debates on TV. But that was all Nazimova needed to hear. Before Thyson knew his mistake, such a stupid mistake by his arrogance, after years of small planning, he was dead on the floor, a bullet to his head. Strike was glad the gun had a silencer, because otherwise someone from the motel could’ve come in and died too.

“Shit! Look what you made me do!” Nazimova had a bad temper himself. They were just like brothers, for real. “Alright, I’m done listening to you. You must die and I’ll hide you both and then run away, no one will ever find me, I bet...” he was mostly talking to himself. Strike tried unsuccessfully to reach the gun. He needed to buy himself some time. If he knew his friends right, Robin had to have been able to find out who was trustworthy already, cleared Hardacre out of guilty and gone after Thyson, sending Hardacre and, maybe, Shanker, to help him. She just had to figure out the same things Strike had while working alone from London, somehow she had to do it, and locate Thyson then. Once he was located, Strike was right with him. Strike trusted Robin. She was the smartest person he knew and managed computers and electronics way better than him.

“Wait!” Strike tried to get some more time. “You’re a soldier. Isn’t it not very honourable to kill someone who can’t defend himself?”

“I’m not going to be fooled again, Strike.” Nazimova took a piece of tape and put it on Strike’s mouth. Strike tried to bite him, earning a punch, and at last his lips were sealed under the tape. “You’re going to suffer as much as me, having my life ruined. And no one will ever find you.” Before Strike could have any time to think, Nazimova had grabbed the knife from Thyson’s body and nailed it with all of his strength below Strike’s left knee, reaching the bone. Strike yelled in agony as blood poured, his yelling muffled under the tape.


	11. Tell everybody I'm on my way

Hardacre, Shanker, Lucy, Ilsa, Nick and Robin sat impatiently in the waiting room of London Bridge Hospital in London. Hardacre and Shanker had, with Robin’s indication, found the motel where Strike was in Murmansk and they started registering bedrooms. However, it was a gunshot in one room that sent them running to that room, throwing the floor down. They found Thyson dead with a bullet that came from a gun covered in Nazimova’s fingerprints. They found the fireplace on, with blood on the floor near it, drops following from the fireplace to Strike. They found Nazimova dead on the floor, a gunshot to his forehead. And they found Strike, pale as a sheet and breathing heavily, his wrists red from twisting against handcuffs and his gun, that killed Nazimova and that was the only one in the room without a silencer, firmly in his sweaty pale hands as he used one leg to raise him up just enough to grab the gun from the shelve where they supposed it had been. Strike was in a pool of his own blood, his left leg missing below the knee and his knife, covered with his blood, in Nazimova’s pocket.

Shanker and Hardacre had run to Strike and, while Hardacre undid the cuffs, Shanker had used his own belt to wrap it around Strike’s leg in an effort to keep the blood from pouring. A minute later, Strike went into cardiac arrest in Hardacre’s arms. Then Hardacre brought him back, the ambulance took him to the hospital and, after making sure he was stable enough to stand a couple hours in a plane sent by the British Air Force that went at major speed, he was sent back to London, where he had just gotten, and was in the theatre for emergency surgery to stabilize his leg better and value the cardiac damage, since, having been awake while his leg had been stabbed and cut repeatedly with a knife, suffering such torture, had reasonably sent his heart in hysterics, his heart’s stress reaching impossible levels. The official version had been that Strike had been doing tourism in Russia, as his family corroborated, and some criminals had assaulted his room and killed him for money. It was now proved that Thyson wasn’t Thyson, so that had the British politics hysterical too, but none of Strike’s people cared.

Lucy had given birth to little George just a week before, but had refused to stay in home, leaving his father to care for his children. Nick kept an arm around her shoulders for comfort, worried that she might be too tired from the baby to stand that, but Lucy was Strike’s sibling and their strong mother’s blood feed them both.

A doctor finally came and sat with them.

“General Strike’s stable,” the doctor said, making them breathe out in relief. “He’s in the ICU, but he can only been seen from a glass now, if you follow me...”

They followed him to a corridor where a wall was glass. The glass opened as a nurse left Strike’s room, but they stood behind it. Strike was paler than a sheet of paper, lying in bed, presumably nude, with tubes and cables all over, machines surrounding the bed, Strike asleep. Robin felt her eyes fill with tears and she reached a hand to squeeze Lucy’s not daring to look at her. Lucy squeezed back.

“He doesn’t feel pain; we had to use quite strong rules as to not worsen his heart’s distress. Is important to try our best to keep him calm, relaxed, chilled out, rested, for the months it take to bring any normality back into his life. His leg wasn’t found, police said it was most likely burned,” the doctor commented politely, letting them stare at Strike. “So we couldn’t try to reattach it. The cut wasn’t very clean, at least a hundred stabs and cuts, using all the strength an adult can muster leaning forward, so we had to clean it up, make it as nice of a wound as possible, wrapped up carefully. With time, he’ll be able to use prosthesis, but I’m afraid the sequels are permanent. Pain, phantom limb issues... he’ll have to use strong painkillers frequently, even with physiotherapy. Depression is expected in these cases, so we’ll put him on antidepressants as soon as possible, and a physiotherapist has already been moving him a little while he sleeps, is good for the body.” The doctor continued. “As for the cardiac damage, it is possible that anxiety or panic attacks appear making things worse, but we’re giving him medication to prevent those, and if we do things carefully and slowly, he should be able to fully recover in that aspect or at least, improve enough to not have to worry so much. He also suffered a mid-concussion, but the skull never broke and the swelling of the brain in minimal, I’d expect minor memory loss, mostly of the trauma, a number of emotional imbalance worsened by the situation, headaches every now and then for a while, temporal concentration issues... nothing too big. But we won’t know for sure until he’s in a situation to make it obvious.”

“What happens now?” Ilsa asked the doctor, her eyes glued to Strike.

“Now he stays in the ICU, sleeping, for a couple days, until we consider he’s well enough to have a room, then you’d be able to be with him. But we’re going to try and keep him as sedated as possible for a few days more, keep the pain at bay until he’s more healed up. Can’t do it for as long as we’d want to because he’s going to need to start physiotherapy, but at least a week, we can afford.”

After the doctor left, Hardacre approached Robin and handed her the oak necklace Robin had previously gifted Strike.

“He was clutching it when we found him,” Hardacre explained as Robin took the necklace between her hands with the same care as if she was holding Strike’s own hand. “I think he was trying to say your name...”

“Yeah...” Robin nodded. “I gifted him this.” She whispered, touched.

“Well, in that case, I think he wanted you to take care of it, so it doesn’t get lost in some hospital.” Hardacre smiled weakly at him and Robin nodded, her eyes fixed on Strike.

**. . .**

A week and a half later, Robin was sitting on an armrest by Strike’s bed, in his own room, one hand absentmindedly playing with his curls, which had grown quite a bit after close to three months not taking care of it, like his beard. Her other hand supported a notebook on her crossed thighs, in which she had notes of her current cases. She had found out that, since Strike was taken from the room he shared with some other man and put in his own, she could relax a lot while just being there and somehow, Strike’s presence made her think more brightly about the cases, she got ideas easier, as if he soothed her enough for her brain to think calmly.

Nick, a gastroenterologist in that same hospital, passed by frequently, often in a rush, just to check everything was correct. Lucy couldn’t come as much as she’d like to because she had a newborn, but Robin promised to do so instead, coming there to do all the work she could do in the office too, and only leaving for street work when the others came, if she even felt like that. She didn’t mind putting some cases behind for this. Ilsa came often, since she was her own boss and could bring work there like Robin, or just set her own breaks, but in the end Strike was her client too; she was taking care of all the legalities to make sure Strike wasn’t accused of murder or something, to keep him protected to both British and Russian laws. Prince William came a couple times, Hardy was there as often as his job allowed, and Strike’s uncle and aunt were currently at Lucy’s, helping with the boys, but usually they left the boys with a nanny in the afternoons and they all went to visit.

Robin checked her watch, moving a hand to absentmindedly stroke the oak hanging from her neck; they must be actually close to arriving. Ilsa, on an armchair in the other side of the bed, frowned lightly at some Russian law book in English that she had supported over her close to five months pregnant belly. Robin loved when they were alone; they could either be maintaining passionate conversations about practically anything or be in comfortable silence, each focused on her own things, like in that moment. Ilsa was the easiest woman to handle that Robin had ever known. Always clear in her intentions, straight ahead, forward, with her mood not so swinging. Robin understood why Strike liked her so much.

“Is it interesting?” Robin asked softly, breaking the silence. Ilsa’s blue eyes blinked for a moment and looked at her, her lips curving into a soft little smile, shrugging with one shoulder.

“Mind-wrecking is more like it,” Ilsa answered. Robin chuckled, nodding, and Ilsa threw a glance to Strike.

He was asleep, slightly propped up in bed against a handful of big pillows, his face gently turned to the side, supporting his very bearded cheek against a pillow as he snored lightly. His face didn’t look drastically pale anymore, but was still a heavy contrast with the rebellious dark curls that fell messily over his forehead, covering a thick bandage that surrounded his head, which made him look a bit like Bob from ‘The Simpsons’, with his curls contained by the bandage only to come out from the upper part of his head and fall back, covering the bandage until it was almost impossible to see.

He was wearing a short-sleeved hospital gown that wasn’t tied around his neck so it opened more around his shoulders, showing a bit of chest hair but done so with the intentions that all the thin cables attached to pads put on his chest and back could pass easily outside with gown without bothering him, going back to the machines. The hospital sheets were up to his chest, a plaid thick blanket that Robin had brought covered the sheets to make sure Strike was warm. Robin had noticed Strike particularly liked that soft, warm, blanket, since he had stolen from her several times over the years when he brought it to the office in the coldest days, and then again when they slept together Strike hadn’t stolen the duvet, but he had had no chill to steal the blanket.

He seemed so peaceful, his big hairy hands resting on his lap, one of them with a hospital bracelet and the other with a little plastic item that covered his index finger and had a tiny red light that Nick told Robin, to her astonishment, could tell the machines Strike’s heartbeat, and didn’t bother the patient much. That same hand had apparently been chosen by all doctors, since it was also bandaged to keep the IVs from moving from the back of his hand and injuring him. The IVs kept steady doses of sedatives into Strike’s bloodstream so he’d stay as relaxed as possible. A physiotherapist came every early morning and every late night to move his arms and legs and little, do some massaging, and his posture in bed was changed frequently, sometimes he was more laid back, other times more propped up... to avoid cramps.

“Do you think he’s dreaming?” asked Ilsa suddenly as they both found themselves staring at him.

“Maybe,” Robin shrugged. “They did say the meds were strong enough to knock out a horse, so maybe his brain is too chill to produce dreams.” She said mostly jokingly. Ilsa smiled a little bit, nodding. Robin looked around the room. The machines were minimal now, only a metallic hanger for the IV bags, and some machines to control his cardiac rhythm, but they were right by the wall beside the nightstand, so they weren’t all in the middle, bothering.

There was a comfortable silence, only interrupted by steps every once in a while around the corridor outside or wheeling of beds. The room left it clear that it was a private, world-class hospital, military paying Strike’s treatments and stay.

It looked a lot like a hotel room. Big windows, pretty curtains, nice wall colours, and the armchairs were so comfortable. There was also a big sofa near the windows that Robin deemed great to sleep on, and the en-suite bathroom wasn’t bad at all. A couple of Robin’s psychology books from University, pretty thick, rested on a glass coffee table by the sofa, since Robin had used them as ‘light reading’ to sleep, deciding to make sure her psychology knowledge as on point to help Strike.

The door opened and Nick came in quietly.

“How is he doing?” Nick asked softly, putting his white coat on a coat rack before walking to kiss Ilsa. His turn was now over.

“Stable and okay, sleeping,” Ilsa replied after their kiss ended, reaching a hand to caress his cheek lovingly. “How was work?”

“Good,” Nick smiled a little. “You two are well entertained I see. Hardworking women!” he commented looking at their notebooks and books.

“Yeah well this hardworking woman is going to have to head outside for work, have some surveillance to do.” Robin was sad she was always missing Strike’s family, she hadn’t gotten to know them yet because she used the last hours of the afternoon, when she knew Strike would have his people over, to go do street job.

She stood up and stirred, picking up her things and throwing them inside her purse, with the exception of the psychology books, that were too heavy to carry on surveillance.

“We’ll see you later?” Ilsa asked. “The family should be here soon.”

“Yeah, but don’t wait for me for dinner, I’ll grab something. Call me if anything, okay?” Robin asked. With a last wave, she left to continue working.

Strike’s mission had undeniably affected their business. Although he had given her his own mobile so she could take care of his cases, most of them hadn’t wanted to wait for Strike’s return, or hadn’t wanted to trust Robin to take care of them, so they had left, not without demanding their money back and threatening with suing. Robin had only managed to keep a couple of Strike’s clients. Then she had managed to make two or three new ones monthly, but she also tended to finish the cases in one or two weeks, which left too much free time. She had started to cut the office’s expenses to a minimum, barely stepping there to save water, electricity and gas, unless it was to not even turn the light on, instead choosing pubs to meet her clients. With that situation, she couldn’t afford weekends or being lazy.

All the money she had made had gone straight for the account Strike had created for their business, and she only took her strict part, the same she had made as a secretary, without a raise. In some occasions she would guiltily grab a bit more, when she needed to pay for her flat’s expenses, that she also tried to touch to the minimum, and she was hoping that now that Strike was back the money in the account would be enough to help him get by, adding the military’s payment for his services and the compensation for the damage caused, but she still wanted to make sure he had as much as possible so he could have the finest therapies, physiotherapist, and a nice flat with a working elevator. Ilsa was already working on forcing the office’s landlord to fix the elevator of the building once and for all. So in hopes to spend the least of their money, Robin had secretly showered in the hospital a few times, or the gym’s swimming pool showers in which she snuck sometimes, having investigated a way to not get caught. That way she needed less money for her flat. Even her meals were as cheap as possible without being unhealthy, and she accepted every invitation she got. She just wanted to save as much as possible for Strike.

As she stood in a graveyard eating pasta salad from a Tupperware, she looked at the graves cautiously. Her latest client had brought a novelty of a case; she thought she had been a stolen baby and wanted to find out who were her real parents. She had been examining graveyards looking for graves of the year the client was born to find out if her real parents buried an empty coffin thinking she was inside and with that, locate the parents, and kept a notebook writing down the information of any grave she deemed interesting. After finishing up with her third graveyard of the afternoon, she went back to the car, empty Tupperware thrown back in his purse, and sat inside the Land Rover researching more graveyards in his phone. That’s when it light up with a simple text from Lucy:

‘ **Corm awake & asking 4 y.**’ Robin’s heart jumped and she texted back with shaky fingers.

‘ **On my way xx** ’.


	12. I always knew that I'd see you again

Robin jogged across the corridors, her heart beating strongly as she imagined Strike yelling, crying because his leg was gone, having a heart attack from the emotional stress. She finally reached Strike’s room out of breath and stopped to calm herself down, recover her breathing. There was no yelling coming from the room, only calm murmur of normal conversation. She breathed out in relief and went inside the room. She noticed no one, her eyes just flew to Strike, who was also staring at her, just as she had left him but with the eyes somewhat opened, glassy, and a tired and sad expression.

“Cormoran,” she breathed out in relief, and two long steps later she was sitting on the side of the bed, his arms reaching out to her like a toddler looking for his mother, and hugging him tightly, knowing his torso wasn’t wounded and taking full advantage. She closed her eyes kissing Strike’s side of the head lingering her hands clutching the back of his gown, and let her heart calm down feeling Strike’s steady-beats against her lower chest, since the position made him seem shorter, his head supported against her upper chest and his arms lazily around her. He was a sleepy dead weight, just searching for her comfort, so she let him be. “You’re home, Corm. It’s over,” she whispered kissing his head. “I’m here and I’m always going to be here and I love you, okay? I love you.” She added, only for him to listen. She felt a soft nod against her chest and he hugged her a bit tighter, but she understood he was still very sedated and sleepy, too much to really have energy for many words or much strength. He had lost a ton of blood too.

“I love y’two,” Strike murmured hoarsely against her chest, making her smile, her fingers moving to caress his curls, knowing he liked it.

After a while, they pulled apart so Strike could lean back against the pillows and Robin leaned forward, kissing his forehead softly. He smiled sleepily looking at her like a very high person and Robin smiled back, holding his face between her hands and drawing circles on his hairy cheeks with her thumbs, softly. Strike cleared his throat and stared at her, transfixed.

“You’re always prettier than I remember.” Robin chuckled at his commentary.

“You look like a hipster now, but there’s a something to it still,” Robin commented blushing. He chuckled, closing his eyes and rubbing his cheek against her hand, nuzzling before letting out a big yawn that made her chuckle. “Wanna go back to sleep? I’ll stay here.”

“I’m tired of sleeping,” Strike said, slurring the words together. “I want to be awake...”

“The nurse lowered the dose a little bit, but not more.” Lucy commented. Robin looked at her and nodded, and then she noticed Joan and Ted were on the sofa and she blushed.

“Oh, hi. I’m...” she stood to shake Joan and Ted’s hands.

“We know who you are. They talk a lot about you,” Joan smiled warmly holding her hand. Robin smiled a little.

“Don’t worry about us, we do have a very attractive nephew.” Ted joked. They must have been in their late fifties, still had colour in their hair, that just a bit gray. Ted was an older version of Strike, which Robin found oddly attractive, making it bizarre. She blushed at his comment.

“Not anymore though, now I’m gonna be Sergeant Hopalong.” Strike said grimly. Robin turned around with a frown.

“You’re not less attractive for that, silly.” Robin said firmly. There was the dark humour at least, a bit more of the man she loved was back. Strike smiled weakly.

“Glad you think so, because if you break up with a man for his leg you’re the one who’s going to look like a bitch.” Strike said hoarsely. The weight of his words took a while to sink in Robin’s brain and her eyes got glassy, her mouth opening a little in realization.

“You mean...” Robin started, staring at her as she still sat on the verge of his bed. Strike shrugged.

“I personally wouldn’t want me, I’ve certainly lost a hundred points with any girl ever but if you’re masochist it won’t be me who stops you.” Strike murmured with his deep voice. Robin understood. He was in his lowest point. Mentally, psychologically, more screwed than probably ever, more of a weight in any normal girl’s shoulders than anything else, with all the consequences such severe trauma took, plus the physical part. Most people wouldn’t understand all he was going to suffer and go through and how hard the beginnings of their relationship could get, but Robin wasn’t most people and they both knew. She knew that he was only daring to do this because he knew she’d understand, he knew it couldn’t be so hard with her, that had always been there stoically through his worst without suffering like normal people, because she studied all of it and was good at it. They both took comfort on the fact that she was prepared through her career to confront that kind of relationship, with someone in his situation, because she had studied the tools to deal with it healthily and help him do the same, so he wouldn’t destroy her emotionally during his worst times.

“I wouldn’t have done psychology if I was afraid of the bad times,” Robin murmured, leaning to kiss him. Strike kissed her back enthusiastically, reacquainting after so long, his calloused fingers stroking her cheek.

“God, how I missed you,” Strike whispered as they pulled back for air. Robin smiled softly giving him a quick peck before pulling back and sitting straight, holding his hand in her lap between her hands.

“So they’ve already told you about the leg,” Robin commented looking at him.

“They didn’t have to. I remember it as if it just happened,” Strike said grimly. Robin squeezed his hand. “Thankfully I’m too high to feel it. But you know, stage one of grief, denial. In my case, I don’t want to look at it, hear from it, I don’t even want the doctors to explain me anything. If they need to work on it I will ask for sedation and close my eyes until they’re gone, and same with the physiotherapist. I don’t want to hear about the mission, travelling, Russia, the government, politics, the royal house or the military. Nothing at all. Not for now at least.”

“Sounds good to me,” Robin rubbed the back of his hand with his thumb. “At least you’re not freaking out.”

“With a bit of luck the sedatives will stay long enough to keep preventing that. Right now I really don’t feel I can handle any level of stress, jumpiness or anything. I don’t even feel strong to talk at a louder volume than this.” He said softly, blinking the tiredness away and yawning again, resting against the pillows. “I’d kill for a fag. Or a Dooms’ Bar.”

“Yeah, dream of something else and we’ll see,” Lucy rolled her eyes with a little smile.

“Right, forbidden,” Strike chuckled all high. He couldn’t even feel anything from the chest down, Ilsa had had to squeeze his remaining toes for him to be assured he still had one foot, because only then did he feel it, from the amount of drugs he was on.

“I think I can help. Brought you a little something,” Robin commented grabbing her purse and pulling out a folder, that she gave to Strike. “A woman needs to find out if she was a stolen baby. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Woah, that’s a nice novelty,” Strike smiled a little, opening the folder eagerly. “You already checked many graveyards I see.”

“Just a first checking, will probably be back. I wrote a list of steps, right there,” Robin pointed. She was happy to see the effect the job had on Strike. Suddenly, his eyes were bright with excitement, his expression more relaxed, as his pupils raced through the pages.

“Seems like you’ve got it all handled,” Strike smiled proudly at her, closing the folder and returning it to her after a while. “Really nice job Robin.” Robin smiled happily. She loved when Strike complimented her work, more than any other kind of compliments. “How’s it going? The guys said you resolved a few cases already.” Robin nodded.

“Small ones, yeah. Unfortunately I lost all you had except two, that got resolved a few weeks later. The ones who left demanded their money back, said they hired Mr. Strike and not some chick,” Robin said with a hint of mocking. Strike rolled his eyes.

“Snobby assholes.” Strike murmured.

“Indeed. There have been a few people who wanted you, only you and nothing but you, but a few others were happy with giving me a chance and left happy. Paid well.” Strike nodded in approval.

“I knew I left things in the best hands, excuse me if I’m not very surprised.” Strike smiled squeezing her thigh. She was satisfied and happy.

During the next few hours, Robin and Strike’s uncle and aunt from St. Mawes got to know each other. Theodore ‘Ted’ Hollow was four years older than his late sister Leda, Strike and Lucy’s mother. He had served as a SIB for fourteen years, becoming a Lieutenant, before dropping when Strike was seven and Lucy just five, so she could help his sister and keep an eye on the kids. By then he was thirty two, still young, and worked as a policeman until he retired in his early fifties to devote to his other passion: boats. He and Joan owned a land with a big house near St. Mawes’ castle, the views to the ocean, and he owned a boat and liked not so much fishing, but sailing. He had been together with Joan for the past forty-three hours that year. Joan, on the other hand, had been a school teacher and later a principal of the main school in St. Mawes. She was a very smart woman, not many from her times had managed to study and she had gone to university, had three degrees, and was impressively smart. However, she had very recently retired, deeming herself too old to be a principal, and now devoted to gardening in their big land, having a great ecological garden.

“Lucy said you studied psychology?” Joan asked, interested. Strike knew that side of her aunt. She had loved her nephew and niece as if they were her own children, since Ted and her had never been able to have their own and then, when things with Leda had been so complicated, they hadn’t felt the need anymore, since they basically parented Strike and, mostly, Lucy, who had lived with them since she was fifteen and left her mother, until she left for university at eighteen, and then she had lived with them again during the holidays, considering their house, ‘home’ more than Strike. She was so motherly it made her overprotective of them and, just like it had taken a lot for her to give a definite yes with Greg, same was with Strike’s girlfriend, even more, because Greg had always been obviously good for Lucy and impossible to dislike, while Strike tended to have awful girlfriends.

But Robin didn’t mind the amount of questioning. She knew Joan only wanted to make sure that her nephew only had the best of the best, even more now with all that had happened to him, and that was a goal Robin shared.

“Yes, but I had two leave two months before graduating. Life got in the middle.” Robin explained with a small smile. Joan nodded, seeming satisfied.

“Well the last two months are always just a wrap up, I’m sure you didn’t miss anything important,” Joan joked with a small giggle. “Cormoran always told us how smart and skilled you are, and now look at you taking care of the business. So deserved.”

“Thanks,” Robin smiled, looking at Strike surprised that he had spoken so much about her. But her soothing company had made him more relaxed and he was on the verge of falling asleep, so he wasn’t paying much attention to them. “I do love this job more than any other I could ever have. And I’ve had a few.” Her phone rang and she looked down, sighing. It was Matthew. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this.” She ignored Strike’s curious glance and walked outside, answering the call while putting distance with the room so no one would hear. “Hi Matthew...”

**  
**


	13. Dealing with the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the adventure marks the beginning of another

She was back in the room a few minutes later, and a nurse had apparently brought Strike a little juice, that he was taking from a straw.

“You’ve got work?” Strike asked.

“No,” Robin shook her head, taking an armchair next to him and smiling affectionately at him. He was drinking something nice and that was good. “Just Matthew, my soon-to-be ex-husband.” Strike frowned.

“I thought you divorced already...”

“We’ve taken weeks so far to settle an agreement and now we’re waiting for a judge to give us an appointment and make things final.” Robin explained before he thought anything weird.

“Ah, let me guess,” Ilsa said with an air of disgust. It was a friend of hers who was being Robin’s divorce lawyer, since Ilsa didn’t specialize in divorces but knew good people. “He wants everything.”

“Somewhat,” Robin shrugged. “He accepted my demands that since he was the cheater, he shouldn’t expect to get a winning agreement. So half and half from selling our house, which finally happened last week. The Land Rover is mine because it was my father who gifted it to me, and since we have no pets or children, things are easier. Matthew was just calling to confirm some stuff about the selling of the house, nothing really important. Funnily enough we get along now much more than when we were together.”

“Usually happens,” Lucy shrugged. “At least you’re free.”

“Yeah, and even if I’m not officially divorced being separated feels about as good.”

“Well I’m glad he’s being a bit mature for a change,” Strike grumbled. Robin, who had never heard him criticize him, looked amused at him. “If he hurts you again I will probably kill him, taking advantage of the pretty eyes with which the army sees me now.” Robin laughed, and he chuckled with the straw between his lips. He couldn’t help it when she smiled.

“He asked about you though. Apparently the news just revealed an exclusive that Jonny Rokeby’s son went back to the Army and during a secret mission got gravely injured. So the military revealed a different official version from the truth.” Robin said. “In Russia there’s news of an ‘anonymous European citizen who got attacked in a motel’, but nothing more.”

“Obviously, they can’t tell exactly what happened.” Strike shrugged, brushing the topic off quickly. “Did Matthew want to know if I died so he could come back?” Robin rolled her eyes.

“He sounded genuinely concerned. I told him you’re already asking for beer.” Robin joked, making him roll his eyes with a small side smile.

After everyone left that night, Robin went to put her pyjamas on under her housecoat and sat on an armchair next to Strike’s bed as they looked at each other in silence. She could tell he was tired, but didn’t want to go to sleep.

“You got the necklace,” Strike whispered then, spotting the chain on Robin’s neck. She nodded slowly.

“Hardy made sure of it. I’ll give it to you again when they discharge you and keep it safe in the meantime.”

“Good...” Strike nodded slowly, sleepy. “I’ve truly missed you. More than oxygen.” Robin leaned forward as if attracted by a magnet, kissing him slowly. The kiss quickly became first more open-mouthed, then deeper, then faster, then more desperate and passionate, and soon they were fully making out, as if there was no tomorrow.

Robin woke up in the middle of the night. The light of a lamp illuminated them and she observed Strike was tossing in his sleep, groaning in pain. She looked up at the IV bag, raising her head from Strike’s arm, on top of which she had fallen asleep, and saw it seemed to have been changed while they slept, so it was full, which meant he wasn’t in real pain, just having nightmares that made his brain feel pain. She started humming a lullaby caressing his cheek in an attempt to relax him, direct his dreams somewhere else. It seemed to work and she went back to sleep, only for the process to repeat a couple times more during the night, until four in the morning, when he finally seemed to achieve a restful sleep.

She was woken again by a soft rubbing of the back of her head.

“Robin sweetie, time to wake up,” Lucy’s gentle voice called, moving to rub her back up and down. Robin groaned, her eyes shut. “Come on, wake up...” She finally opened her eyes and sat straight, groaning at the way her neck screamed at her in annoyance. Strike seemed to have just woken up too, and smiled at her sleepy, sympathetic. Robin looked around, confused, and saw Lucy looking gently at her, standing next to her. “It’s lunch time. You two have been asleep all morning.”

“It’s my fault, I must’ve woken her up with my nightmares...” Strike grumbled apologetically, holding back a yawn.

“W-What?” Robin yawned and rubbing her eyes. Then she looked at Strike’s watch in her wrist and her eyes widened, registering Lucy’s words as the hand of the watch pointed to the twelve. “Shit. Shit!” She jumped from the armchair and rushed to the closet, jerking it open and finding her holdall and pulling some clothes out of it, running into the bathroom.

She washed her face and teeth, got dressed and threw her hair into a messy bum as fast as she could, putting on her ankle boots and rushing outside the bathroom. Strike was now being served a big bowl of pasta and practically drooling over it and Robin rolled her eyes, smiling at that. Lucy was there because it was Saturday, of course, so Greg wasn’t working and could take care of the children so she could see her brother, since they were trying not to hire a nanny while George was so little. Ilsa and Nick sat on the sofa eating some take out and chatting with Joan and Ted. Robin saluted them quickly and reached for her phone on the bedside table, charging.

“It’s been vibrating like crazy,” Lucy commented. In fact, Robin saw five missing calls from crying, two from her lawyer and one from Matthew, along with a simple text of ‘Robin, hurry up’. Robin sighed.

“Where’re you going on such a hurry?” Strike asked, gulping down and looking at her up and down. Even though it was rather obvious that she had gotten ready super quick and had only done super basic make-up -that Strike deemed completely unnecessary- to be faster, she was still really pretty, with a dress under her coat.

“I’m supposed to be signing my divorce, and super late. I’ve got to hurry, sorry,” Robin leaned for a quick peck on the lips.

“You’re divorcing today?” Strike chocked. “You kept that quiet!”

“Well I didn’t know until my lawyer texted me at midnight saying she just got an email with the date confirmation.” Robin said as she hurried to grab her purse. “Say goodbye forever to Robin Cunliffe!”

“You haven’t eaten!” Strike shouted as she disappeared. Her hand suddenly appeared at the door frame followed by the rest of her body, and she ran to Strike, grabbed one of the couple apples he had been given for dessert, before running outside again. Strike rolled his eyes and shook his head with a little smile.

“So nightmares, uh?” Nick commented.

“Yeah well, the doctors did lower the dose of meds so I was more... aware of my environment. Sometimes environment means nightmares,” Strike shrugged. “Nothing big, but I must’ve kept her awake.” He yawned again. He felt guilty but would make sure to compensate later.

Later turned out to be three hours later, when Robin finally made an act of presence, looking way more ready for life and with a smile from ear to ear, shoving a paper to Strike’s face after kissing him as a greeting.

“What’s this?” he asked looking at the document.

“That is my freedom, my train ticket, my new life, my way out, my surname coming back into my life.” Robin said cheerfully. Their friends cheered and Strike grinned at her, happily. The news even made him feel healthy for a second.

“Congrats, Ms. _Ellacott_.” Strike stressed, making her smile bigger.

“Oh, we’re going to have to celebrate with alcohol when my little one is born,” Ilsa said hugging Robin from behind, cheerfully.

“Damn yes. Girls’ night, we can wait a few months for you,” she added patting Ilsa’s baby. Ilsa and Nick would soon be having baby girl Herbert, whose name was still being decided. For now, they just called her ‘Miss Herbert’, ‘The madam’ or ‘HIP’ for ‘Human In Process’, which admitted so many meanings that Strike found it hilarious.

“What about me?” Strike frowned.

“When your penis falls off we can talk,” Ilsa laughed. Robin smiled leaning to his ear.

“I was thinking of a special celebration with you, in private.” Robin suggested, biting his earlobe lightly and making him blush.

He hadn’t thought about his new situation as to avoid feeling like shit, so he had definitely never thought about his new situation and _sex_. The idea that Robin still planned on still having sex with him regardless of the circumstances was, however, both scary and encouraging. However, before he could dwell on the thought an intense pain emanated from his leg, making him shout and grab his thigh over the sheets. Robin frowned looking up and seeing the IV bag had emptied.

“Lucy,” Robin calmly said over Strike’s through clenched teeth’s shouting in pain. “Please get a nurse to come and put a new IV bag for the pain alright? Go,” Lucy nodded and left the room in a rush. Robin turned and sat on the armchair to be at Strike’s leg’s level, putting a hand on his bicep softly. “The IV bag is empty, they’re going to change it and you’re going to be painless again. Look at me Corm, look at me.” She tried to distract him, keeping him calm.

But Strike was agonizing in pain, clenching his teeth and groaning strongly, heavy breathing. Robin observed he was even shaking in pain and tried to move his face to look at him, but he threw away the sheets instinctively as a human reaction to ‘this hurts, let’s see why and fix it’, and then he saw the stump for the first time. Since his leg was always on a cushion or a pillow, he was used to looking down and seeing a bulge under the sheets, which kept cheating his brain into thinking he had a leg, subconsciously. Now however, he was hit with the reality of the situation and Robin could see perfectly well the minute he started panicking, his eyes widening, fixed on his leg, and his breathing getting erratic. Seeing that he wasn’t listening to her anymore, she pushed him back, putting herself in the middle of her view by sitting on the verge of the bed and softly pushing him against the pillows, a hand on his chest and the other on his forehead, stroking his hair back. Strike finally looked at her, unable to see his stump anymore, and saw her lips moving but he couldn’t hear anything.

Then he heard the door jerking open as the nurse and Lucy came in and he finally heard Robin.

“Look at me Corm, don’t think about that,” she said calmly, stroking his hair softly. “Breathe okay? It’ll be over soon.” He squeezed her thigh in pain and the nurse hurried to change the IV.  It took a couple minutes of Robin whispering Strike soothing words while the meds reached inside, but he finally started to calm down, until the nurse left after a quick check to make sure all was okay, and Strike collapsed in Robin’s arms, sobbing softly. Robin buried a hand on his curls as his forehead rested on her shoulder, and with the other she rubber his back, supporting her cheek on his hair.

She knew the five stages of grief from Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ book ‘On death and dying’. She had not only studied them; she had lived them. First came _denial_ , denying the event, pretending it didn’t exist, and as it progressed and things started to sink in while your brain accepted only what you could handle, it evolved into recognizing the event and wondering why, doubting one can live with the event, not seeing a future possible. That evolved into the second stage, an intense _anger_ towards anything and everything, was or not related to the event. The anger masked other feelings like sadness, pain, love and frustration, in that way of feeling too much but by all getting in the ‘anger bag’, as one of Robin’s teachers had put it, it made it easier to deal with. You could be all the angry in the world but it was just a desperate way for your mind to deal with things, in reality you didn’t want to hurt anyone, and, with the right help, the anger became _bargaining_ , the third stage in which, as you were sadder than angry, you just tried the negotiation. ‘If I had done this, _event_ wouldn’t have happened’, ‘Please let it be a dream, and I’ll be a better person’, etc. The fourth stage was _depression_ , which well, could last God knows how long and even evolve into permanent depression. But finally there was acceptance.

Strike had just continued in the path of the first stage. Robin held him lovingly, not losing her own shit, whispering nothings against his ear. Lucy contemplated them amazed at how well Robin just controlled the situation, without freaking out, crying, getting all worked up, upset, or altered, she just identified the problem and applied the right tools to deal with it. The others seemed just as impressed. Strike finally stopped crying after a few minutes, but didn’t move. He was emotionally, mentally and physically exhausted and his head was pounding. He was just downed and gladly accepted Robin’s comfort, panting.

Nick took a plastic glass of water and offered to Strike, who moved to accept it, glad, and then snuggled again against Robin.

“I love you,” Robin whispered pressing her lips against his hair. She pulled apart a little and held his face against her hands, his sad eyes still glassy, his expression absolutely crestfallen. She used her thumbs to wash the tear trails off her face, and she kissed her forehead.

“This isn’t fair,” Strike grumbled. “You know why he chose me?” Robin frowned lightly. “Because having the best of England, as he called it, after him, augmented his ego. He played us all along...” he sniffled, shaking his head. “He was sure he’d kill me so he just picked a good beast to fight. He just... chose me to die between a hundred other people, specifically me. Why?”

“Corm...” Robin pressed her forehead against him. “Those men were completely out of their minds, they weren’t reasonable at all. So you can’t reason anything they did, they made their choices randomly. You just happened to get stuck in the middle by the unfairness of life, for no particular reason.”

After a while, Robin managed to put Strike to sleep, stroking his hair until he was snoring peacefully, with a bit of luck until dinner at least. Robin tucked him properly stirring the blanket until it was squeezed under his chin and also covering his leg and a half properly, making sure the stump was properly on top of a cushion under the sheets.


	14. Full blown fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worried about how closeted-off Strike's getting, his family puts too much pressure.

The next few days Strike was the quietest, most serious man. He would respond only with gestures and humming, he looked crestfallen, and Robin knew he was struggling to comprehend how he was in such a situation, so stuck in his own mind that he couldn’t pay attention to whatever conversation was held around him, even when it went directed to him. He only spoke to ask his doctor, very politely and with short words, one day, to lower his sedatives somewhat further, since between the situation and his concussion his mind was probably blurry and he must’ve hated it. He ate reluctantly, slowly and in small amounts, and he always seemed to be somewhere else. That didn’t change even when the military, Hardacre’s bosses, came asking questions, along with who had been provisionally elected as the new PM until the new elections took place in a few months.

Strike’s group of loved ones insisted to Robin in more than one occasion that ‘maybe he’s depressed’, ‘maybe you should talk to him’, ‘maybe he should go to therapy’. But Robin knew Strike couldn’t deal with talking with her or a therapist yet, since he was still trying to organise his ideas, his memories, to talk about them. Pressuring him to talk in a moment like that would be like asking a child to read Great Expectations with the fluidity of Dickens himself when the child had just learnt the alphabet. One first needed to learn what they were thinking before telling their thoughts.

So Robin just tried to give him his time to think, carefully get him out of his mind enough for small tasks, forcing his brain into thinking outside the box, since she knew sometimes when you obsessed with something your brain just blocked. She also tried to make him feel useful. So she’d ask him help for cases, she’ll ask him to change his shirt himself when he started wearing pyjama shirts, anything. When the physiotherapist came they just had to accept Strike’s mood, which wasn’t very difficult since the physiotherapist, expert in amputees, was an amputee himself -whole right leg was prosthetic after a driving accident- and work around that, accepting Strike’s determination to not look at the leg for the time being.

“Cormoran,” Robin called one morning after several days, sitting with her laptop on an armchair by the bed. Strike looked at her absentmindedly. Robin saw painfully how he always tried to still be there for each other and even if he wouldn’t talk, he was so expressive for any eyes that could see. Even less observant people would at least appreciate the way his lips tried a smile and his eyes nailed on whoever directed to him when he was spoken to, trying to be nice, showing that he listened, even if he couldn’t manage a word, like a baby who can’t talk but looks at you, looks sad, or happy, but reacts to your presence. He was having serious trouble organising his ideas and thoughts into sentences, and at times it passed through Robin’s mind the possibility of it being a delayed consequence of his brain concussion. Robin returned the smile sympathetically and held his hand between her own. “The doctors have been talking about the possibility of releasing you in a week or so, but you sold your attic for the business so Lucy and Nick, Ilsa and Nick and myself all would feel honoured to have you stay with any of us. We love you, and we’ve all offered. Besides, the doctors were mentioning that until you get the hang of things, you could use some help to move around the house, and we’d be thrilled. But I thought there were good reasons for you to refuse our offers so I decided to find you another option, so you feel less cornered, and looked up at flats around mine,” Robin explained softly, looking gently at him. He seemed transfixed by her, almost like high, and curious at the same time. Robin then moved the laptop to his lip so he could see. “If we live close I can be there often to discuss cases and spend time together, maybe snuggle and watch movies, and we could even organise and go together on surveillances! You could also call me if you needed anything like, if you have cramps or you can’t reach your back to scratch it.” She said in a light tone.

Strike made a barely audible sound of approval and looked at the screen. The apartments Robin showed as she explained him the pros and cons, were all very nice and, according to Robin, he could afford it, even more with the military’s economical compensation. They all had elevators, they all were small and easy to move around, and they all had a number of things to make the life of legless people easier, things Robin had thought about even if Strike hadn’t dared to think so. He didn’t dare to see himself as such.

“Can I...” Strike whispered after a long time, his voice raspy from lack of using it, hoarse, and deep as always. He seemed embarrassed and blushed. “...stay with you?” Robin smiled gently.

She had thought about that and she knew if she and Strike weren’t involved it would only be the most logical option, one she would’ve gone for right away, without even asking. The reason she had thought he might not want to was because they hadn’t even had a proper date. They were just starting. And maybe it wasn’t a very smart option to live together already, even less with how complicated Strike may get. Which is why she said:

“Of course, Corm. You’ll see, we’re going to enjoy our company even more, investigating until late, snuggling in bed...” Robin leaned to kiss him and nuzzled her nose in his neck. “I hated the idea of you being in some flat alone.”

Strike turned to kiss her forehead appreciating her thoughtfulness and efforts and that was it with the conversation. He then fell asleep and after lunch, Robin reluctantly left to work more and left him with Lucy, Ilsa, Greg, Joan and Ted. Nick was at work. Without Robin there, Strike snuggled up in bed getting as comfortable as he could even though he was so done with everything so sick of the hospital, the bed, everything, and closed his eyes in an attempt to pass from his visitors. He could feel their annoyance at one more day of Strike being so closed off, and it made him feel guilty and worse, but he couldn’t do anything else.

Unfortunately, Lucy wasn’t so patient anymore.

“Corm!” Lucy called him for the fifth time, walking to the bed and shaking him softly. “Stick! I’m trying to talk with you, and I know you’re not asleep! Stop with his madness...”

“What do you want?” Strike grumbled, feeling himself start to get angry. Maybe he had reached stage two. Lucy sighed, momentarily taken aback by the fact that he actually answered.

“I want my brother,” Lucy murmured. Strike turned to throw her a fierce glare that she returned just as fiercely.

“I _am_ your brother, even if I’ve never seemed to be good enough for your majesty.” He snapped, gesturing towards her.

“What are you talking about?” Lucy replied, scandalized. “I’ve always loved you as you are!”

“Oh, my ass!” Strike was exasperated now. “You always find something to complain about, ever since I know you! Stick, that girl isn’t good for you, Stick, you aren’t fucking going into the army! Stick, are you stupid quitting Oxford?! Stick, you are not living in your office! Stick, quit smoking that crap! Stick, you drink too much! Stick, Stick, Stick, don’t be you because is not good enough for my standards!” he shouted at Lucy, who was taken aback but replied just as fiercely.

“Is not my fault you’re a fucked up person and I always have to be mothering you! You should be thankful!”

“I already had a mother, thank you! Don’t need you!”

“If I hadn’t _mothered_ you, you’d be dead on the street years ago!”

“Better than standing you one minute longer!”

“Guys maybe you should...” Ilsa intervened.

“How can you be so fucking ungrateful?! We all leave our things aside, I’m ignoring my newb...!”

“I never asked any of you to do that, go back to him and free me of y...!”

“...to spend as much time as we can being here with you just to be treated like...!”

“Guys! We’re at a hospital, stop shouting!” Joan hissed, reprimanding them like children.

“Then leave!” Strike glared at his sister, sitting up in bed, eyes wide in anger. Lucy instinctively stepped back, and it wasn’t unreasonable; with that much beard and all the furious he looked, anyone would’ve stepped back. “Leave, and never come back, like mum!” Lucy narrowed her eyes, speechless for one moment.

“No. You may have no idea how to treat your little sister, but I’m still going to stay here and care for you the way...!”

“For fucks’ sakes Lucy, this is what you call care?! Love?! You don’t even like me! If it was up to you Nick would be your brother! And frankly, the good thing Russia had was that you weren’t there!”

“None of that is true! You’re just being an asshole!”

“Lucy, just...” Ilsa tried again.

“Of course!” Strike roared. He looked as if the only thing keeping him from pushing his sister was his leg. “I am the asshole! Always! Of course! You know, for someone who despised Charlotte so much, you’re both so freaking...!”

“That’s enough Corm!” Ted intervened.

“No, let him say it, what am I Cormoran?!” Lucy pushed, angry.

“The same as she was! A fucking dick of a person, manipulative and...!”

“Don’t you dare speak like that to my wife!” Greg jumped from his seat.

“Shut up, you brat, this doesn’t even have to do with you!” Strike roared at him.

“Don’t you say a word against my husband!” Lucy snapped.

“Enough!” Robin shouted, entering the room and shutting the door forcefully. “Shut up, everyone, before security comes!” she looked angrier than Strike remembered to have seen her, ever, except when it came to Matthew. The girl’s temper quickly made everyone shut up and Robin breathed deeply, leaving her purse on the floor. “Your shouting can be heard from the lift, the nurses are hysterical out there, talking to security, I had to persuade them to let me handle this.” Lucy nodded looking ashamed and crossed her arms over her chest, sitting back down. Greg sat with her and put an arm protectively around her shoulders.

“You’re right Robin,” Lucy said calmly, breathing down. “I’m sorry, this is not the right place for discussions. Maybe we should comment with the nurses how much they’ve exactly lowered his dose of sedatives...”

“Oh you bitch, shut up.” Strike hissed furiously.

“Cormoran that is no way to refer to your sister, please apologize,” Robin asked gently. Strike laughed drily.

“ _I_ should apologize? For what? For having my leg cut off and being hurt?!”

“No, you should apologize because you don’t mean to hurt your sister,” Robin argued gently, sitting on the verge of the bed and interlacing her fingers with Strike, looking at him lovingly. “Please, Corm...” Strike looked at her for a moment and then sighed and shook his head.

“Maybe I do mean it,” Strike said simply.

“Corm...”

“But I’m right, Robin,” Strike argued stubbornly. “ _She_ willingly _chose_ to come here, you all did. _I_ don’t have a choice, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. But you all did and it is not my fault if I’m not the company you’d like to have, if you don’t like it, leave, as simple as that. I’m not going to shoot anyone for that. But staying here just to recriminate my behaviour? Just to be angry that I’m not the best company, as if I had a choice? _That_ is bitchy. And selfish. And _wrong_. So why should I apologize? If someone comes here just to be mad at me and, as she _always_ does because of course she’s perfect, tell me everything I do wrong, judge me and pinpoint all the ways in which I’m not the ideal brother, coming here just to hurt me and piss me off, then I do mean it when I say they’re bitches, and I do think that they should be kicked out. This is _my_ room.”

Robin sighed, exhausted. It was past dinner time and she hadn’t eaten yet. She had spent the entire day standing London’s impossible traffic, exploring graveyards, doing surveillance, arguing with stupid clients, and she had come thinking of relaxing snuggled with her boyfriend watching ‘Downtown Abbey’ on her laptop while eating pizza she’d have sent to the room, in her comfortable pyjamas. Certainly not getting in the middle of a fury between siblings, as Lucy seemed to have catapulted Strike straight into the _anger_ coping stage. She could feel the beginning of a headache.

“Fine,” Lucy said calmly, standing up. “Greg and I have a newborn to care for and who is sure more appreciative of our attention and love. Goodnight.” That said, they both left, coldly. Ilsa sighed leaning back on the sofa, eyes closed and her arms around her belly.

“Why don’t we all call it a night?” Robin suggested. “We could all use some rest.”

With some murmurs of appreciation, the room started emptying in a less cold way, giving Strike kisses and nice words until only Robin and him were there.


	15. George Cormoran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scare ends with Strike meeting his youngest nephew

“I’m going to head to the cafeteria for dinner,” Robin murmured looking at Strike, who nodded. Robin leaned for a quick kiss and went downstairs, passing by the nurses’ desk, that was practically in front of his door, to inform them he was alone now while she had something to eat.

When she came back, twenty minutes later, she thought he was asleep, lying down flat in bed, the sheets up to his neck. She went to give him a goodnight kiss and realized his eyes were open a little, and his breathing a bit erratic, but not enough for the machines to make scandal.

“Corm?” She asked, pressing her lips against his forehead and noticing he was really cold. “Are you feeling alright?” Strike frowned a little, looking at her with an expression of outmost confusion.

“Corm?” he grumbled. Robin frowned more.

“Are you cold?” Robin asked, adjusting the blankets. “I’ll bring you another blanket, one moment...” she opened the closet getting another blanket from there and adjusted it over Strike before checking the room’s thermostat. It certainly wasn’t cold. She went back to Strike, concerned. “Is it better now?” Strike, paler than Robin remembered him being before she left for dinner, breathed heavily. “Corm?”

“Who... are... you?” he asked between breaths.

“What?” The machines started beeping indicating a too low blood pressure and Robin frowned looking at them. Then Strike passed out, and she felt her heart jump to her throat, jumping up and pushing the button for the nurses. “Cormoran!” she called urgently, putting a hand on his chest, not feeling a heartbeat, from how low it was.

The nurses came running and pushed her out of the room. She stood in the corridor powerless as doctors came rushing and after a few minutes, Strike’s doctor came out looking grim and she feared for Strike’s life.

“There’s an infection,” the doctor said. “It caused septic shock.” Robin’s eyes widened and he nodded, seeing she knew what it meant. “We’ve put on an oxygen mask and we’re raising the levels of antibiotics and sedatives. We’re also giving him meds to raise his blood pressure up. The nurses will keep a closer monitoring to see how he evolves. Septic causes mental awareness to drop and well... Mr. Strike’s in coma, Ms. Ellacott.”

**. . .**

Robin and Lucy stood by Strike’s bed, listening to his breathing as if it was the only thing keeping them alive. The doctor had explained them how dangerous infections were, how they were one of the main reasons patients died, not really from surgeries, and how septic was the worst one, pretty life-threatening. They didn’t know how long it would last. They retired the IVs, cleaning them up to assure infections wouldn’t produce there, and now they changed his leg bandages every three hours, to keep it clean from bacteria, but in most cases even with such good care bacteria could still find its way in, and even more when someone was so weak, his immune system so tired.

It lasted weeks, full of fear, a couple times they were really close to losing him for real and one of them, the doctors actually had to bring him back. His condition seemed to worsen every day until, after a few weeks, it seemed to get better every day. By then he had been in the hospital for a full month and a half, and Robin was no longer leaving his side. Lucy went from being with George to being with Strike every time George closed his eyes for a nap, Robin’s parents came to offer a hand and keep Strike’s uncle and aunt distracted. Hardy and his wife came almost every day. Shanker came a few times too. Lucy’s birthday was postponed.

Three weeks after the sepsis started, they were all in the room, now forced to wash their hands with some special soap every time they entered the room, and keep a distance as to keep their non-sterilized clothes at bay from his weak immune system. Even Dave Polworth, Strike’s oldest friend, and his wife, had come upon hearing the news of imminent death. For such a crowded room, the silence was unreal.

“Don’t you have work?” Linda Ellacott asked her daughter, who leaned against her shoulder in pure emotional exhaustion. She hadn’t left the room in about four days, not even for work.

“Tons of it,” Robin replied in a tired whisper. “Can’t concentrate enough for it.” Linda nodded in understanding and kissed her forehead.

“Is okay, we can lend you money if you need it love,” Linda whispered lovingly, hugging her closer.

“Thank you,” Robin murmured, closing her eyes. “I spent a hundred and twelve quid last week bribing someone for information. It wasn’t even worth it.” Linda rubbed her back in consolation. “It took him years to build up that agency,” she murmured exhaustedly a while later, her eyes closed still, “and I’m going to lead us to bankruptcy in four months. You’ll see...”

“Nonsense, you’re doing very well,” Michael squeezed her daughter’s thigh.

“They found,” Hardacre said suddenly, his voice hoarse. “They found all the fancy equipment I gave him, buried two meters down in Norway, right near the frontier with Russia. The snow made it hard to find it earlier. Why would he bury it? It had GPS. I could’ve found him earlier. Maybe... maybe before they cut off his leg. And he’s be out and walking...”

“He didn’t know if you were a spy too, Hardy,” Robin grumbled, opening her eyes and sitting up to look at him, who stared at her, stupefied. “He told Shanker to give me a quote from Lord Byron, for whom I used to be obsessed. It said,” she knew it by heart. “ _Tyranny is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem none rebels except subjects. The prince who neglects or violates his trust is more a brigand than the robber-chief._ At first I didn’t know the hell he was talking about. Then I realized, after a good while, that he was talking about a cruel prince who violates his trust and ambushes him. I thought shit, is Prince William a traitor? Is he cruel, did he ambush Cormoran? But then I realized it wasn’t him. Strike was talking about someone powerful we couldn’t trust, and I started thinking of who had any power to have ambushed him, someone cruel. I came up with two names, you and Prime Minister. Then I remembered when Thyson was elected we saw it together on the news and I commented there was something I didn’t trust about him, and Cormoran agreed with me so I decided to make him my prime suspect. When I found out he wasn’t in England, I knew he was in Russia, I saw that you were still here, and then I found out that Thyson and Nazimova were friends from school, and it all came together, so I knew you were trustworthy and that the reason Strike had gone straight to me was because he could only trust me, that he suspected of you and Thyson and that’s why he couldn’t just tell Shanker to tell me straight away, because no one could suspect I knew. That’s why I was the one to send you and Shanker there, because I knew if Strike suspected you he would get rid of any trackers because you and Thyson both had access to the GPS information and would find him too soon, but Strike knew I’d be able to find him without being tracked down because Thyson is far too arrogant to think so much of a woman.”

“Diddy got rid of the GPS because he thought _I_ was a traitor?” Hardacre asked scandalized. Robin sighed and nodded.

“Jesus Hardy I thought by now you would’ve realized already,” Robin said tiredly.

“Well- no?” Hardacre was perplexed. “I would never...”

“I know,” Robin nodded, impatiently. She didn’t like to discuss things in a moment like that. “I know, he knows, but back then he didn’t know who to trust that could help him except Shanker and myself. With my brain and Shanker’s ability to knife anyone, he must’ve thought it would all go perfectly well. He simply thought Thyson and Nazimova would take longer to find him, giving me time enough to figure out who was trustworthy and get whoever there to help him.”

“Do you realize if you had taken too long, or hadn’t been so smart, he’d be dead? Seems a lot of trust to put in one person.” Hardacre said gently after a while, not wishing to offend her. Robin gave him her best ‘are you kidding me’ face.

“Speaks the one who trusted one person to save us from war?” Robin said sarcastically. “I can assure you we’d both rather trust each other blindly to save the day, than any Met or soldier, any given day. The only reason we’re both alive is, after all, that the other didn’t disappoint.” She murmured.

“Damn right, she wolf.” Shanker added proudly looking at Robin. Then she heard coughing from the bed and they turned around, holding their breaths. Strike had coughed a couple times and Robin saw him blinking, a hand rising to rub his eyes.

“Cormoran,” Robin and Lucy were there in the blink of an eye, each at one side of the bed, and Robin smiled tearfully as Strike looked at her, somewhat perplexed, and removed his oxygen mask himself.

“Did I miss something?” Strike asked hoarsely, clearing his voice.

            A couple days later, he seemed much better and progress started going faster. Bandage off his head, his curls looked messier than ever, and way too long, four months without a haircut, a shave or grooming, but no one seemed to mind. They told him what had happened and he and Lucy had a long private conversation and apologized to each other, tearfully. The events seemed to have moved Strike into _bargaining_ , the third stage, and he certainly looked calmer, less about to explode in an angry fit. He started looking at his leg, he started actually collaborating actively with his physiotherapist, and he even had his first shower in over a month.

Now that he was feeling strong enough to hop around the room with some help, the doctor retired the catheter and he started moving to head to the bathroom, wearing pyjamas, and a week after waking up from coma he was strong enough to stand in front of the sink and shave while his physiotherapist and Robin kept hands on his hips so he wouldn’t lose balance or fall, Robin’s hands on his hips and the muscled physiotherapist’s arms under his armpits for leverage. So Strike shaved clean, not having stubble for the first time in years, and even let Lucy, who had some practice from when they were children and not rich enough for hairdressers so they’d cut each other’s hairs, cut his curls somewhat shorter, although he didn’t trust her to return his bangs, so he just brushed his hair back and let it be messy, but way shorter than it had been.

“I’m so proud of you,” Robin was saying as they both snuggled in the sofa with their family, eating lunch, kissing his lips. The doctor had just announced Strike would be discharged the following day, after two full months in the hospital, which was nice because it was already May and Ilsa was enormous, less fond of hospital trips every passing day. Strike smiled accepting the affection, loving to feel a bit more back, even if he had gone from weighting 16 stone of muscle, enormity, and a bit of fat from the bad meals that came with the job, to 170 pounds, which was a ton less, without mentioning how pale he was, after months in such non-sunny countries and then never leaving the room.

There was a knock on the door and Lucy came in with one month old baby George in her arms. She had managed to convince the personnel to let her in saying that he ‘hadn’t met his daddy yet’, since Greg was home with the other two boys.

“Look who’s here,” Lucy sang. “Uncle Corm!”

“Hey!” Strike grinned stretching his arms towards George, who was gently put in his arms, and laughed seeing George’s jumper, that read ‘BEWARE; MY UNCLE’S A CORNISH GIANT’. “Oh you’re so cute!” George looked at him with big curious eyes, his lips forming a small pout.

“He looks so much like you,” Joan commented, sitting on the other side of Strike. Robin was making cute sounds to George, who looked impressed.

“Cutest little thing,” Robin approved pinching George’s cheek softly.

“Of course, he’s my nephew,” Strike said smugly, kissing his forehead. “You better worship me like your brother Jack, little one. Sorry it wasn’t a girl though.” He added, looking at Lucy, who shrugged.

“Bah, I actually prefer it. A small gang of overprotective men, yay.” She smiled at her son’s cuteness. “My little George _Cormoran_ Rickman...” Strike looked smug at the revelation.

“Don’t look at me when he gets bullied for that.” Strike joked.

Lucy and Joan left a while later, when George fell asleep in Strike’s arms and it was time to put him in his crib at home. They hadn’t been gone for too long when there was a knock on the door and Deputy Colonel Commandant of the Royal Military Police, General Lady Savannah Thorton, asked for permission to come in. Hardacre stood in military salute until the General gave him permission to sit down with a nod and a generous smile. Strike knew the woman well; they had been friends back when he was in the army and she wasn’t yet the most powerful woman in the RMP, the Queen as her only boss. They had slept together a couple times, stopping by her own request, since she was a superior and it wasn’t so right. Over the years, while Strike quit, she made her way to the top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, sorry for the lack of posting, my summer's hectic and I just got a wrist injury and using the computer has gotten a little tricky.


	16. Royal thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know that much about the UK Royals nor Politics, so I basically made it all up (did research on decorations until my eyes bleed though)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you so much for your reviews. My wrist is doing better, and I am always thankful and blessed to get reviews and see what all of you think. If you wish to, I have a tumblr (https://thetrunkofthenighttraveler.tumblr.com/) where I often talk about my fics, or post content fandom related, if you want to check it or talk to me there, feel free!  
> Hugs!

** Chapter 16: **

General Thorton was a tall, muscled woman, long blonde hair, with warm brown eyes and a very gifted brain. She was beautiful enough for Robin to feel somewhat threatened, and had an impressive Curriculum that led her to be named ‘Lady’. She had kind eyes, and Strike knew she was a good person, honourable, trustworthy, kind, but also strong, fierce, stubborn and determined, thirsty for justice. As she stood there you wouldn’t think she was The Boss. She wore simple jeans, knee boots with high heels, and a jumper under her long coat, that she put on the coat rack.

“Goodnight everyone, I’m Savannah,” the General said kindly. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I had to see my friend Cormoran. I’ve been travelling for work, just got here a couple days ago and since Hardy had told me you were in coma, I couldn’t wait to pass by. I see you’re better, thankfully.” She smiled warmly at Strike, leaning for a hug, that Strike gave her with a small sympathetic smile.

“I’m glad you’re the boss now, I would’ve rather deal with you that the PM,” Strike commented. “Congrats, by the way. Guys, this is my friend Savannah. Nowadays, she’s General Lady Thorton, Deputy Colonel Commandant of the Royal Military Police, aka, the big fat boss.”

“Bah, I’ve never been one for long titles,” Savannah brushed off, humbly, and sat in the space Joan had left free.

“You already know Hardy and his wife, of course,” Strike commented, “well this is my Uncle Ted from Cornwall, he was a SIB himself, don’t know if you...”

“How would I not remember? Is Ted Hollow! What an honour, sir, how are you?” Savannah moved to shake Ted’s hand and sit again and Ted smiled warmly.

“Very well, thank you.” Ted answered. Savannah seemed fascinated by his presence.

“I must say skills definitely run in the family,” Savannah commented. Strike rolled his eyes.

“And these are some of my best friends, Dave, and Nick and Ilsa Herbert. And this is my business partner, girlfriend, and the woman who’s saved my life in a few occasions, Robin Ellacott, and her parents Michael and Linda.”

“Nice to meet you,” Robin said with a polite smile accepting her handshake.

“The pleasure is mine. I’ve heard so much of you, Hardy told me you were the one to locate our giant, uh?” Savannah nodded satisfied. “I love girl power. Badass.” Robin blushed and nodded. Savannah looked back at Strike. “So how are you? Is it time for dark jokes already or should I save calling you Hopalong for later?”

“Ha, ha,” Strike said drily, but still looking friendly. “I’m much better now. So what brings you here aside from friendship and concern? We both know a simple friendly visit can wait until daylight.”

“Ah, got me,” Savannah shrugged with an apologetic smile. “Had a crazy day discussing matters with the royals and our new temporal Prime Minister, and I was asked to come get your part of the story written down, since they’ve been waiting for quite a long time and they thought now that you’re better it was as good time as any other.”

“Oh,” Strike nodded slowly. “Well thanks for the visit Savannah, but you’re gonna have to wait. Maybe when I’m home and with a good beer in my hand I’ll be more willing to talk about matters, and now I’ve got company...”

“I know,” Savannah shrugged. “Is not top secret anymore though. It blew as a scandal, thanks to the Russians, but we still managed to keep a bit of control. It will leak to the news by next week. The final version is that our ex-Prime Minister wasn’t who we all thought and carried out a complex masquerade and invented himself an identity, hiding his true Russian persona and plotting against our government and the royal family itself. That’s what the news will say. Our people already found all the documentation he used to get into University and politics and well, he did a very good job to falsify official documentation, even I needed a while to see the marks of it being fake...”

“Will they say anything about the hard-drive?” Hardy asked, as this information was last minute and he didn’t know.

“No, we managed to be a bit cryptic with that. We told the Russians the government suspected the PM and Nazimova were together plotting against us and that General Strike was asked to come back into the army and, given his reputation, keep an eye on them and told us all he could find out. We’ve hid and wish to keep top secret the exact nature of the mission, the plotting, and we also made sure the Russians never suspected we knew their Tsar was somewhat involved, but the UK government will keep eyes wide open with him from now on. Since Hardy managed to retrieve any indications of your fake Russian identity for you before any Russian came, they don’t even know you were our infiltrated spy.” Savannah explained, looking back to Strike in the end. “When the Russians saw two of their people dead and our government kept charges on them for treason and assassination attempt on an UK soldier, we had to form this version for them and therefore, is the one leaked to the press. The Russians aren’t happy at all, even more since initially we told them you were just a tourist who was almost killed by Russian robbers, but the Queen met with the Tsar and managed to convince him we had to be cautious until our investigations were over, therefore the different versions of the matter.”

“Great,” Strike said without much enthusiasm, drinking from his water. He enjoyed Robin’s chin against his shoulder, her hair stroking his cheek sometimes, giving him chills.

“Well the fact that this latest new version has become the most official one makes it very easy for the UK to give you the reward you deserve and that until we managed to create this version, we’ve been wrecking our minds to justify to the public.” Savannah pointed out, since Strike hadn’t gotten the idea.

“What reward?” Robin asked.

“For what the Queen has told me, this deserves a Knighting and the Victoria Cross, highest award in our honours system, awarded for gallantry in the presence of the enemy. It rewards most conspicuous bravery, major acts of valour and self-sacrifice or extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy. Ever since the second World War only eleven have been awarded to the British Army, the twelfth went to myself a few years ago and the thirteenth to Strike.” Strike looked at Savannah as if she had hit him with a brick. He had been told he’d get an economical compensation and a thank you, but that no one would ever know. He was happy being anonymous, he had never particularly cared about decorations, and he already some much less important decorations for his work in the army and he was never egocentric about them. But the idea that his government, after putting him through hell and after how betrayed he felt by Thyson, recognized what he had done was outstanding and remarkable as that, and wanted for the world to know too, gave him some warmth in the heart. Robin smiled at him, squeezing his hand. “Oh,” Savannah added. “There will also be a very, very generous economical compensation for your sacrifices.”

“I didn’t do this...”

“For the money,” Savannah finished. “I know. But the Queen insists so, and I quote ‘he can spend it on beer, trips with his family, a nice retirement of whatever he wishes, he’s a hero and he deserves it’ She highly respects men of true value. She praised how, at difference from most soldiers, you were practically forced into the mission and yet went, even if it was all alone, without the army soldiers usually have to have their backs.”

“If I’m honoured,” Strike said. “I wish for Hardy, my friend Shanker who’s not here, and Robin, to be decorated too.”

“I’m sure I could put on a good word for the Queen, but she’s going to need convincing.”

“Oh, I’ll give you convincing,” Strike nodded. “Hardy is the most honourable man I know in the Army. He risked his own neck to have my back, not caring if he had to go alone to keep my safe if the rest of the army wished to abandon me to my luck, as it was first the intention thanks to Thyson. He had a traitor breathing into his neck the whole time and he didn’t quiver, he kept being the only company I had, planning everything so I was in the best conditions, sending money, investigating for me, encouraging me, keeping me in touch with my loved ones the little he could, he always had my back. Ultimately he and Shanker were the ones to come and get me, weren’t they? And when they did it, they didn’t know Thyson and Nazimova were dead. They went in willing to confront two people with reputations of great assassins, on their own, only Robin knew they were there, they had no army, no fancy weapons, no back-up. But they did it for me, and they brought me home and if it wasn’t for them, I would’ve bleed out to death right there.” Strike explained. Hardacre blushed hard. “Shanker... look, alright, he’s not the ideal recipient of civilian decorations. He’s a mess, he lives in the streets and he’s always been with questionable companies and runs away from any uniform that approaches because he doesn’t wish to end up in prison for some drugs, he’s done nothing uglier than that, I swear. But he’s honourable as fuck, and after this, I know there’s no civilian man in the UK more loyal than him, nor one more courageous than him. He’s never left London. He has zero fight training, unless you count knife fights with fellow druggies and stuff like that, and I’ve known him for nineteen years in which he had never done me a favour for free. But he wasn’t being paid when he went and saved my life from Donald Laing a year ago...”

“That was never in my knowledge...” Savannah interrupted.

“Of course not I promised not to put the police on his back and Savannah, I’m trusting you to not put him in trouble with the law here. Look, he did that, and he wasn’t being paid either when I told Hardy to tell Robin to tell Shanker to come to Sweden and retrieve the information I had himself, because I could only trust him. And he did it, a man who doesn’t speak more than English and has zero travelling experience, he’d do that for me. Just like he came with Hardy to save my butt, and I’m sure he would’ve died if with that he killed someone like Thyson. He despises traitors for sure. He just went there, knowing full well he was no challenge for those people, out of friendship, if that isn’t an enormous act of courage and loyalty worth a decoration, I don’t know what is.” Strike sentenced. “I think receiving one, a small one, would mean a lot for him, enough for him to finally go and start over. Shanker isn’t even his real name, I don’t know it myself. But he could stop living in the street, use the money that comes along and start over, maybe go back to school. He has always been a curious, intelligent man, just too poor to afford an education. I’m just asking for that. Is the least I owe him.”

“Alright, if you think he’ll accept it... I see your point with both of them and I’ll try my best. As Hardy’s boss, I know his reasons write themselves,” Savannah chuckled proudly at Hardy, who blushed harder. His wife proudly pinched his cheek. “I can already imagine but what do you want me to tell the Queen about Ms. Ellacott?” Robin blushed hard. She didn’t need a decoration. Strike home was all she wanted.

“Tell the Queen,” Strike said calmly, putting an arm proudly around Robin’s shoulders. “That Robin didn’t know about Thyson, until I sent her through my encounter with Shanker in Norway a quote from Lord Byron,” he moved his hand for Robin to put the paper on it, and he gave it to Savannah, who read it.

“What is this supposed to mean?” Savannah asked, perplexed, giving it back.

“Exactly,” Strike smiled proudly, squeezing Robin with his arm. “It would take you or myself quite a while to figure it out, but I knew Robin would do it faster because she adores Lord Byron. I couldn’t just tell her, ‘The Prime Minister is a traitor working with Nazimova, help me, I don’t know if Hardacre or anyone else in our government is involved and I don’t know how to gather proof enough he’s a traitor to show it to the Queen’. So I sent her this and it was enough for her to know it was Thyson, that he had betrayed us and, since she knew I hadn’t just sent Hardacre, she also knew I didn’t know who to trust. So she did her own research, her own solo investigation, putting work and personal life aside, and gathered 80% of the proof that was used against Thyson, while I only put the recording that was retrieved from my jumper with the confession and a few files that in reality only proved Nazimova and Thyson knew each other. 80 percent, Savannah, she’s the reason we can firmly accuse his dead body of treason. She also had enough time to check that there was no other traitor in our people and therefore free Hardy of suspicion, locate Thyson, and send Hardacre and Shanker in time to save my life. If it wasn’t for her, they would’ve never found me and I’d be dead, since I had to get rid of my fancy technology with GPS tracking in case Hardacre was a traitor, so he couldn’t find me.”

“That’s damn genius, impressive for real,” Savannah looked at Robin with admiration, making her blush harder.

“Indeed,” Strike agreed. “And she had found out who were exactly the dangerous people I was after, so while she investigated and until she knew the rest of our people were clean, she thought anyone could barge in and have her killed or worse at any given moment, if they found out she knew. Yet she went on. She always had my back.” He looked with emotional eyes at Robin and kissed her forehead. “She’s always had it.” Robin’s own glassy eyes closed for a moment, speechless. Strike was back at talking with Savannah when she looked again. “Robin is the bravest, smartest, most intelligent, most loyal, most trustworthy and most selfless woman that I know. She’s also one of the main reasons why criminals such as Donald Laing, Noel Brockbank, Elizabeth Tassel and John Bristow are in prison. This is now the second time she has saved my life so far, and she’s always done it without expecting anything in return, just because it was the right thing to do.”

Savannah smiled looking at Savannah with an impressed expression.

“The Queen loves badass women and so do I. I’ll make sure to let her know of this.”

“Robin Ellacott from Masham, don’t forget.” Strike stressed, and Savannah nodded with a smile. Robin was too emotional to talk, so she just sat there, shocked.

“Will you now tell me what happened?” Savannah pleaded then.

“On another occasion, I promise.” Strike nodded. “Give me time Sav.”

“Alright then,” Savannah smiled. “In that case, before I go, the Queen wanted for you to have this...” She opened her briefcase and pulled out a folder with a few documents and a pen, all of which she set on the glass coffee table, putting empty tea plastic glasses aside, for Strike to read, which he did cautiously.

“A formal acceptance of my petition to go back to my agency and quit the Army, along with a clause that forbids the UK government, the UK royalty and the UK military to ever attempt to force or pressure me into any mission, collaboration, or any other kind of professional activity,” Strike said with a grin after reading the papers. Savannah nodded.

“Sign that and you’ll officially become a normal UK civilian again, although your decorations will still be awarded as a Sergeant, for one last show in uniform.” Savannah explained. “That should be in a couple weeks or so. After that, you’re officially free forever. No dirty business, I re read it myself.”

“Ilsa, check it yourself just in case. I’m still not signing anything my lawyer hasn’t checked.” Strike handed it to Ilsa, who left her glass of tea on the coffee and happily obliged. After a while, Ilsa nodded with a satisfied smile.

“You want to sign this, trust me,” Ilsa gave them back. “They include a formal statement of apology from the Queen herself for the damages and prejudices occasioned to your person as you were forced into the mission by a traitor, and is considered outrageous to do so and even more to do so to a civilian.” Strike looked truly satisfied as he signed the papers and gave them to Savannah, who shook his hand.

“The UK is immensely grateful for your incredible work, Mr. Strike. Damn fine job.” She smiled and left. “Well, sorry for having stolen so much time. Have a good night misters, madams...” she waved goodbye and left.


	17. This is what happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS! In this chapter Strike tells what happened and it made me sick so I'm just saying you may have to jump some paragraphs (towards the end) CAREFUL PLEASE.

Strike was discharged into Robin’s care, going to live with her at her flat. They avoided discussing what the step meant for them romantically speaking and simply fell into a domesticity that occurred so naturally it seemed as if they had always lived together. They shared Robin’s bed, both woke up a few times during the night, Robin helped him back to sleep and gave him any meds he needed, and in the morning, Strike would crutch his way to the kitchen, sit on a stool and make breakfast with Robin, sometimes even alone, when Robin was in a hurry and could use time to shower and do her make up while Strike took care of that. Strike would bath more than shower, and they went to work together the lift fixed, him taking the farting sofa while she took her old seat in the outside office so they could enjoy each other’s company while Strike helped close Robin’s cases. Then Robin would go for take-out and they’d have lunch together and then Strike would crutch his way to physiotherapy and Robin would keep working until they joined each other at ‘home’ for dinner.

The third day after the discharge, they were snuggled up on the sofa enjoying the evening, Strike drinking beer with her stump on a cushion on the coffee-table and Robin snuggled into his arms, both wrapped up in the plaid blanket as they watched an Arsenal game. Robin didn’t particularly enjoy football, but she enjoyed seeing him get all worked up with football, laughing at his sarcastic remarks to the TV and his childish happiness when there was a goal. The game finally ended on a victory of the Arsenal and Strike kept a shadow of a grin in his face, supporting his cheek on Robin’s hair, content.

“I love this,” Strike commented interrupting their comfortable silence. “You and me, sitting here getting drunk and watching TV. I dreamed with this.”

“You’re so easy to please,” Robin giggled, kissing his cheek. He turned to kiss her lips and then her forehead. “So you’re not all anxious about us living together?”

“I thought I’d be,” Strike shrugged. “It took me years to live with Charlotte, until I left the Army. It’s not something I do lightly. But then again, I don’t ask someone into a formal relationship easily either, and both things happened with you. I guess you make things so easy.” Robin smiled content.

“I’ve never lived with such a clean person so I won’t complain.” Robin kissed him and stood up, picking up the dishes from the coffee-table and taking them to the kitchen.

“Although,” Strike commented elevating his voice so it reached her in the kitchen. “Isn’t it scary to think about what happens if we don’t work out? I won’t be able to live here anymore right? And, will we be capable of still working together?”

“Of course is scary,” Robin closed the dishwasher after filling it and walked to Strike, gently sitting on his lap and burying a hand in his curls. “Just think that it’s still just us. We’ve always been partners in some way, and we’ve just gotten better at it over the years. Even if we don’t work out I know we will still care deeply for each other and will be reasonable people and make sure things are okay and we can at least continue to be perfect job partners.” Strike nodded.

“Yeah, you’re right. We’re great,” Strike happily accepted Robin’s smiling kiss. The kiss deepened and Robin was quickly sitting with her legs on each side of his hips, rocking her hips against him as they kissed passionately, urgently, their hands roaming around each other’s. Then Strike was kissing and nibbling her neck and shoulder and, as she moaned, she went to fidget with the button of his trousers, and he suddenly stopped and pulled apart, taking Robin’s hands gently and putting them away. Robin frowned looking at him who looked embarrassed.

“What’s wrong?” Robin asked him concerned.

“I can’t do sex yet, Robin.” Strike explained. Robin nodded in understanding and got up, sitting next to him instead. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, I understand if you don’t feel up for it yet. I don’t know... do you want oral?” Robin suggested, blushing as she did, for Strike’s amusement, every time she said something slightly dirty.

“I mean I could eat you out, I would love to,” Strike smiled a little, leaning for a kiss. “I just don’t want you to touch me there for now...” Robin frowned, confused, and he sighed. “I don’t feel sexy, or pretty in the slightest, Robin. You’re a goddess,” she blushed harder. “But I’m too thin, too hairy, and with the stump I just... I’m not the man you had sex with, and I don’t feel ready for you to see me nude like this.” Robin had, in fact, not seen him nude since the amputation, only shirtless a couple times. He made her close her eyes when she helped him get dressed sometimes, and he didn’t let her into the bathroom while he bathed, unless it was an emergency and only if she didn’t look towards him. “To be honest, I don’t even think I can get it up, between the meds and my mental state. I tried once just to check, while you were out, and there was no way.”

Robin finally understood what was going on and nodded slowly, although she was surprised he had tried to masturbate behind her back.

“I understand,” she nodded. “And sexual dysfunction is common between people who suffered great injuries...” Robin reasoned.

“I would still love to please you though. I’ve missed your body.” He smiled dirtily at her, who rolled her eyes with a little side smile before locking eyes with him.

“You know I love you even more now than when you left, right?” Robin asked him. He looked surprised at the information. “Like, I love you a bit more every day, I feel it. And every day I think it can’t possibly get bigger, but the next day it does. I don’t care about how your body has changed, I only care that you’re happy and healthy. To me, you’re still the sexiest, most handsome man alive, and you know I’m not just saying. You know I don’t say anything I don’t mean with all of me.”

“And I appreciate it, truly,” Strike nodded. “I just can’t see myself the same yet, and try having sex with someone who isn’t confident about their body, is a disaster.”

“I understand, I won’t pressure you at all. Whenever you’re ready, I’m dying to suck your cock,” she blushed saying it, her arms around Strike’s neck. He laughed. “No?”

“No,” Strike shook his head, giggling. “Is not even a little tough. Soft, dead weight.”

“Aw...” Robin bit her lip, smiling. “Well, had to try. Give me a kiss.” He leaned and captured her lips hungrily for a moment.

“It’s weird because I don’t feel aroused but mentally, I do feel like kissing and nibbling you all over...” Robin could tell that was the exact moment in which her panties got ruined. “I can still tell you’re so sexy and gorgeous and I would love to make love to you again, if it wasn’t for my own mental state. I look at you and all I can think about is kissing you and never stop. But still, funnily enough, I can’t manage to feel aroused.”

“Well one can’t exactly feel aroused if their own body disgusts them,” Robin smiled sadly. “Do you really want to touch me? Because I haven’t... waxed. Cold winter, I wasn’t feeling like it.” She blushed, embarrassed.

“Robin,” Strike rolled his eyes. “I know how hypocritical it’s going to sound coming from the guy who won’t think better of himself for a leg, but I could never see you as anything but sexy, even if I pulled down your panties and saw a damn forest. If it’s up to me, by all means, never shave, it must be a pain in the ass.” Robin laughed and he smiled warmly. “So if it doesn’t make you so uncomfortable to keep you from a good climax, I would love to gift one or two to you now.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. She felt her face warm and shrugged.

“Me? I’m the most beautiful woman in London,” Strike giggled, nodding. “And I’m dying for a good climax.” She stood up and got rid of her pyjama, standing nude in front of her while she retired the elastic from her messy bum, letting her hair fall loose. Strike’s eyes widened. Sure enough there was a bit of dark hair under her armpits, a couple hairs were around her nipples and forming a thin line of barely fuzz on top and below her belly button, the hair getting darker and thicker on its way to her pubis, where it became a not very exaggerated amount of dark blonde-reddish curly hair. Her legs were fuzzy with hair that, as her arm hair, he could barely see due to the light colour, practically blonde, but he felt it soft as a kitten under his palms as he rubbed her legs up and down, kissing his belly and below where it made her moan.

“You’re so stunning...” he breathed out against her clit, nibbling it softly. She gulped a shout, burying her hand on his hair and pressing him towards her, his tongue dancing over her hole.

“Don’t you play me after five months dry Strike,” Robin warned, and he giggled against her hole, sending shivers and making her legs weaken, before his tongue pushed inside. She moaned deeply closing her eyes and pushing against his tongue and, a few minutes later, Strike guided her to lay on the sofa, and he knelt on the floor, leaning over her to kiss and nibble from her lips, passing through her neck and shoulders, and to her breasts, that he fondled, his thumbs playing with her nipples before his lips substituted them, letting his fingers roam to her folds, that he kept parted as one finger made his way inside her wetness.

Robin woke up later that night after at least three delicious orgasms that hadn’t managed to bring Strike’s member to life. She was back in her pyjamas, lying half over Strike, who, since his amputation, preferred to sleep face up, and he was shouting. It took her a moment to fully wake up enough to comprehend it was a nightmare and she had to wake him up before the neighbours called the police, because he sounded as if she was stabbing him.

“Cormoran!” she hissed, kneeling on the bed and palming his hairless cheek softly. “Cormoran, please wake up, come on!” Hating herself, she covered her mouth with one hand and pinched his nose, until the lack of oxygen jerked him awake.

“What the fuck?!” Strike said, sitting up and recovering his breath, agitated.

“I’m so sorry, I was afraid the police would barge in thinking it was a case of domestic violence,” Robin excused, and he nodded more relaxed as she pulled him to lay against her chest, playing with his curls so he’d go back to sleep. “Are you sure you still don’t want to talk about it? You should talk with someone Corm, a therapist or...”

“I don’t want strangers,” Strike argued, and looked up pleadingly at her. “Would it be okay to have you be my psychologist?” He asked after a moment.

“Of course,” Robin smiled kissing him. “I mean my curriculum at that is inexistent, but as you wish.” He giggled against her lips. He already felt better, she just did such magic on him. His nightmares were the worst and a few minutes later she made him laugh just like that, which only made her smile more and him love her more. “How do you want to do this, Girlfriend Robin and Psychologist Robin?”

“I’d rather...” Strike shrugged. “Girlfriend Robin with impressive psychology knowledge and skills, if that’s alright.”

“Sure,” she nodded. “What if I make tea and we sit on the sofa? I don’t see you going to sleep anytime soon...”

“Are you sure?” Strike looked at her, concerned. “You’ve barely slept...”

“I’m wide awake now,” Robin shrugged. “Don’t worry, this is the perfect excuse to spend tomorrow all day in bed snuggled, kissing and watching terrible movies in the laptop.” She smiled warmly at him and he smiled back, the guilty feelings leaving him as he nodded.

“Go make tea then, I’ll get some pyjamas that I haven’t sweated.” Robin giggled and rushed to the kitchen, leaving him to lie trying to reason how he got so lucky.

A while later they both sat on the sofa, Strike’s stump and other leg on the coffee-table as he cradled a mug of tea in his lap. Robin snuggled with a blanket in the other corner of the sofa, her legs bent and her feet brushing Strike’s thigh, another mug of tea in her hands.

“It’s not just a nightmare,” Strike started. “It’s a memory.” Robin nodded in understanding. She was used to Strike never talking about her feelings and emotions, and felt oddly proud that she was the chosen one when he finally wanted to talk. She waited in silence remembering his words, years before ‘you have to know when to or not to ask’ until he continued. Her necklace was back around his neck and he absentmindedly fisted the oak with a free hand, as if it gave him courage. He could not look at Robin. “When I left Shanker I went to the frontier Norway’s got with Russia to bury the stuff Hardacre gave me. I bought a recorder so minuscule it fit inside the lining of a thick jumper, where Hardacre recovered it, and went to Murmansk. I knew it was a matter of time for Thyson and Nazimova to find me, and I couldn’t have it happen too soon, so you had time... and I went to my room, a rental I had at a motel...” he could remember it as if it was yesterday. The concussion had kept memories blur and at bay for a while but now, recovered from it, they were crystal clear. “They were waiting for me. I tried to be careful going in but somehow I missed it and one of them hit my head and when I woke up, my wrists were handcuffed over my head, to pluming... and they were there. Nazimova shot Thyson because I managed to make Thyson fuck up and reveal he didn’t intend to share success with Nazimova, so he shot him. But then Nazimova was angry, really angry.” He sighed, and took a long sip of his mug as Robin observed in silence. She was bringing her psychologist side up to avoid flipping like a good girlfriend, and she braced herself for what was to come.

But it didn’t come. He just sat there, looking down at the mug between his hands, looking crestfallen, down. Robin put her mug on the coffee table and sat on said table in front of him softly taking his mug and putting it aside too, before holding his hands with her own. She raised her eyebrows a little, searching his eyes with hers until they locked.

“Hey... I’m here. You’re not there anymore and I will never let you be in such situation ever again. You’re safe in our flat.”  Hearing her call her flat their flat made him smile a little and he nodded. “Tell me what you want.” She said softly, leaning to kiss his forehead. “I’m here.” Strike cleared his throat and nodded, more determined.

“He took my own knife and,” she felt his hands tense and she squeezed them. “He stabbed me right below my knee. I remember... The most excruciating pain, it was... I wanted to die. I just wanted to die. I prayed for the pain to kill me, but I wouldn’t even lose consciousness. I tried to jerk my legs far from him, but he grabbed my leg strongly and with the other hand she stabbed full force, using his body, like a hundred times super fast. At one point all I felt was pain, I couldn’t even move to kick him or anything. I couldn’t hear my own screams, muffled by tape he put on my mouth, nor feel my own crying. It was like... like when you watch the butcher cut the neck off the chicken with that tiny axe, only that they’re dead and you don’t feel it. I felt it all.” Robin squeezed his hands tighter, her knuckles white. He looked up to her with a trembling lip, his eyes full of tears. She tried to keep a stoic, strong figure. He needed her, even if she had never seen anyone so devastated, so broken in ways only something that terrible could break you. She could hardly recognize him, it was more like looking at a toddler whose pet died, like when her brother’s dog died. “I couldn’t even think, you know?” he said, his voice broken. “All that existed was pain. And even if I didn’t want to look, I couldn’t tear my eyes off it, nor close them. It was pure sadistic butchering. Then he grew tired, after a few minutes, and it was bleeding so much, so he just sat there calmly, enjoying it. Sometimes he would just sit and laugh or brush off his sweat, and then he’d grab me again and every now and then do small cuts, inspect, look at the destroyed bone... a whole hour, Robin. One hour of him pocking into my leg, making comments such as ‘look! A muscle! What happens if I cut here?’ and he was just loving it,” he sobbed and it sounded like if he was asphyxiating. “The more tired he got...” he sobbed out. “The slower and sloppier he was, and then I remember the moment when he... he started pulling from my leg, it wasn’t coming off and it was agonizing...” Robin couldn’t tear her eyes off him, and she prayed she didn’t look as about to puke as she felt. Strike wasn’t even looking at her anymore, bowed down, sobbing tragically and talking through the sobs. “He just kept pulling and pulling... and then he got frustrated it wasn’t coming off, so he grabbed from the ankle and with the other hand... he started stabbing angrily until something cringed and the leg came off. I remember seeing it so powerless just sitting there in a pool of my blood...” he sobbed, and Robin couldn’t stand it anymore. She shut her eyes close to keep her tears at bay and hugged him tightly, letting him cling onto her for dear life.

After a few minutes of the most horrific crying he calmed down and she discovered she had cried in silence against his shoulder. Then, in a murmur that seemed to come from the dead, he finished the story:

“He laughed throwing the leg to the fire, and somehow I don’t know how, because I was shaking, and I couldn’t breathe and it felt like my heart was going to jump out from my chest from the arrhythmias, I... I pushed myself up with my other foot and I could reach a shelf over my hands if I stirred the handcuffs to maximum... and my hands touched the gun on the shelf, and I took it... he turned around and went pale when he saw me holding the gun, but smiled... I couldn’t bring it down from over my head and I knew I wouldn’t manage to shoot him... but I tried and it hit right in his face.”

After that, Strike just collapsed in her arms, exhausted, and she hugged him tightly. Only when she was sure he was tucked in bed, asleep, his snoring loud, did she lock herself in the bathroom and cry feeling the most absolute anger towards what he had to endure. Then she calmed herself, threw up, cleaned herself and slid back under the duvet, snuggling against him.

 

 


	18. Sweet encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story continues...

The next day, while Strike was still asleep, Robin woke up early and texted Shanker to meet him at a coffee shop nearby. Strike had already spoken to him about the chance of being decorated and Shanker was more than eager to start a new, fancy life as a hero. Robin invited him to coffee, the bags under her eyes indicating how much she needed it, and asked Shanker to tell her exactly what happened, because after hearing such horrific story she needed to hear the happy ending. The part where the knights come to the rescue and bring her love home.

So Shanker told her how the shooting made Hardacre and him, that were registering the motel, know which room was it, how Hardacre threw the door down, and how they found Strike exactly where Strike’s story had left it. Shanker told her about using his own belt to practice a tourniquet on Strike’s leg, pressuring the wound with his jacket while Hardacre opened the handcuffs and lied Strike on the floor, calling for an ambulance on his mobile. She heard about Strike being wide awake and arrhythmic, unable to breathe properly, and Hardacre massaging his chest and trying to comfort him and keep the blood flowing, the little that was left, and how then Strike seemed to asphyxiate and the paramedics came and put oxygen and fluids, and Strike finally passed out with what later Robin knew had been confirmed as a heart attack from intense cardiac stress.

After coffee she walked around until she felt recovered, and then went back to the flat, smiling as she saw Strike was still snoring strongly. She didn’t expect that just talking did the trick for him to at least sleep that one night, but it did, probably due to emotional exhaustion, and Robin got back into her pyjamas, Shanker having sworn to never tell Strike about their conversation so Strike wouldn’t think he had broken Robin, and made brunch, that she carried on a tray that she put on the mattress, gently waking Strike up, as guilty as that made her.

“Wake up sleepy-head,” she said gently, peppering his face with kisses, which made him smile sincerely as he stirred with a groan, the sun hitting his face through the balcony curtains. She smiled caressing his face as he slowly blinked awake.

“Morning,” he yawned. He reached a hand to put a stray lock of red hair behind Robin’s ear and then put the hand behind her head and push her down for a kiss, that she gladly corresponded. “Thanks for last night. Are you okay though?”

“Three orgasms and a good snuggling, of course I’m okay,” she smiled at her, and gulped a yawn. “Just a bit tired, but I’ll be asleep as soon as we eat this.” Strike then saw the full English breakfast presented and grinned.

“I’m the luckiest man in the world indeed.”

A couple hours later they snuggled together in bed propped against the pillows, Robin snoring softly against his chest as he finished up an episode of Downtown Abbey in the laptop he held on his lap, a hand absent-mindedly caressing her hair, his cheek supported on top of her head and his other arm firm around her body. He had never felt such an intense love and gratitude for a person, and he found himself often distracted from the show, mesmerized by a sound she made, or just staring at how cute she was, snuggled like a cat against him, the sun shining against her hair, making it brighter. He had already taken a few pictures and even a few selfies, overwhelmed by her absolute perfection. His phone sounded then and she quickly took it from the bedside table before it woke her up. It was just Lucy.

“Hi Luce,” he greeted kindly.

“Hi!” Lucy said happily. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, just snuggled in bed with Robin, we’re taking the day off and she’s sleeping now,” he explained. “How are you and the kids?”

“Sounds nice! They’re good, all four of them,” she joked. “Greg is going out with some friends tonight for a friend’s bachelor party and we decided to call the nanny so I could hang out too, then I called Nick and Ilsa and we thought we could all go out tonight? Somewhere fancy for a change? Ilsa said Mackenzie and her husband Tom, from St. Mawes, remember them? We were all friends,” Strike remembered Mackenzie. She was Ilsa’s best female friend, which made them quite a trio. She had later on become good friends with Lucy and started dating Tom, who was one of Strike’s good friends from the boxing club. He hadn’t seen them in ages and sort of missed them. Tom worked now in a private security agency in Waterloo, had a sarcastic sense of humour, and was his only friend fan of the Arsenal, and Mackenzie was pure sweetness and worked as a nurse, which led to the funny coincidence of her meeting Nick at work and through him relinking her relationship with Ilsa, that was lost for a few years. “They just came from holidays in Canada, and they were just at their house when I called, so long story short, dinner tonight, the four of them, myself and you two. Say yes!”

“Yes,” Strike said with a chuckle at her triumphant shout. “You sound so excited for a mother about to abandon her cute little baby for a night.”

“Oh, shut up. See you at six at the City Social. Don’t worry about the money, you’re rich now thanks to the military remember?” Strike laughed and nodded. His stomach grumbled eagerly. “Kisses to Robin, love you!”

“Bye, love you.”

He hung up and then felt something wet against his chest. Looking down he realized Robin was drooling on him, and chuckled, making sure there was photographic evidence.

Later, he went to physiotherapy and Robin stayed home being lazy for a change, and he was back in time to change into his suit, Robin already rocking an incredible dress.

“How was physiotherapy?” Asked Robin putting on her earrings standing in front of the bathroom mirror as Strike walked behind her, kissed her, and went on to grab deodorant, standing with the shirt open, behind her, on his crutches.

“It was okay, a bit tiring but well, can’t wait to get drunk. That dress really looks good on you,” he smiled at her as she turned around to button up his shirt while he supported on his crutches. She blushed softly.

“Thank you, you’re pretty handsome yourself,” Robin kissed him again.

“I hope you know erectile dysfunction is the only thing keeping us from being late today,” Strike shouted as she left the bathroom, her laugh echoing in the kitchen. He chuckled as he couldn’t help to do when he heard her laugh and looked at himself in the mirror. He had gotten a haircut the day before and now his hair looked all nice and elegant, and stubble was already covering his face, but he didn’t care. Then it struck him. His friends Mackenzie and Tom would see him without the leg, the pants pinned. Suddenly he felt sick to the stomach and he walked to sit on the sofa, looking crestfallen. Robin came out of the kitchen and stopped dry in her feet, looking at him with concern.

“What’s wrong?” she asked kneeling in front of him. He looked like a child in the playground with no friends. “Is it hurting?” He shook his head.

“Mackenzie and Tom will see me without the leg. The whole restaurant will,” he grumbled. She understood. The shame, the looks that would go to him, everything. She sighed and kissed his forehead.

“Corm,” she caressed his cheek lovingly. “Don’t worry about Mackenzie and Tom, they know what happened and you almost died, they’re going to be way more focused on the fact that you’re alive than on your leg. And they’re good friends, Mackenzie a nurse specifically trained to have a normal reaction to these things. They won’t make you feel bad. Just give them a chance, don’t let the fact that they _may_ do something inappropriate keep you from having a great night you were so looking forward to.” Strike shrugged.

“What about the others?” he murmured sadly. “I don’t want them to look at me and make comments...”

“Of course they will look at you and make comments, you’re all over the news...” Robin pulled from his face so he’d look at her, and smiled at him. “Because it will be like seeing Superman walk into the restaurant. They’ll be like ‘Oh my God, it’s Cormoran Strike, the British hero!’ ‘Mr. Strike, an autograph for my daughter, please, we’re such fans!’” she used her voice abilities to fake a couple funny snobbish voices far too sharp for a normal woman, and Strike laughed softly, his sadness vanishing for a moment. She smiled warmly at him, holding his face between her hands. “You’re _my hero_ , Cormoran Blue Strike.” He looked at her, touched, without blinking. “You’re so brave. Just confront them and you’ll see it will be okay because I will be right there, we all will, with you. Once you cross this bridge, you will never have to worry about the river stopping you from going far again.”

Strike couldn’t help but kiss her. He  _was_ after all, capable of loving her a bit harder.

**. . .**

The couple took the metro towards the restaurant. Sitting together in the very crowded metro, Strike took comfort on Robin’s fingers between his own. He looked up and spotted a blonde head he knew all too well. Savannah stood with her earphones on and her eyes on her phone, wearing a nice dress under her coat, oblivious to their presence. Strike nudged Robin with his elbow and pointed to her with his head, so she looked at the blonde.

“Maybe we should invite her,” Robin suggested. “After all, she’s giving a nice word about us to the Queen. And Lucy won’t have to be the third wheel all alone.” Strike nodded and Robin stood up, poking Savannah on the back. He observed them chat all smiles and giggles, and Savannah smiled at Strike when Robin pointed to him. After a while, they both came to him. “She has accepted our invitation.” Robin informed her smiling.

“The wifey’s on a business trip in Norway and between dinner all alone with the TV and a very fancy restaurant, you tell me,” Savannah shrugged. “Thank you, are you sure is okay I come?” she looked at them both.

“Sure, my sister was the only one keeping this from being a double date, she’ll be pleased to have you. You were the only military friend she ever liked aside from Hardy.”

“I’ve missed that little one,” Savannah chuckled.

“Yeah, little one just had her third child,” Robin laughed, and they all approached the door as the train reached Liverpool Street Station.

**. . .**

“...And then I look up from the ring and there in the public I see the most beautiful woman in the world, standing with Corm’s friend Ilsa,” in the restaurant, Tom was answering Savannah by recounting his story of how Mackenzie and he met and the girls were all listening to the story with heart eyes. “I ran to Corm as soon as I got off the ring and asked who she was, and asked her out the minute we went to greet them. We married what, seven years later?” Mackenzie nodded, her fingers passing through her husband’s blonde hair lovingly. “And the rest is history. Now we have a little boy, Alexander, he just turned three. But he’s at a play date with his cousins tonight.”

“Aw, such a sweet story. Reminds me of when I met my wife at a military gala,” Savannah commented. Robin got distracted by the incredible views from the city, since the restaurant was at a high tower and from there they could see some of the most emblematic British buildings like the 30 St. Mary Axe skyscraper.

“Impressive isn’t it?” Robin whispered to Strike as Savannah and the others kept talking. Strike looked through the enormous window by the table, and shrugged.

“I don’t know why it amazes you so much. It’s not more stunning that what you see every time you look at yourself in the mirror.” He commented with ease, his eyes fixed on Robin, whose golden-red hair fell over her shoulders gracefully. She looked at him and blushed with a little smile, and he smiled back.

“You’re silly,” Robin murmured before giving him a quick peek on the lips.

“...And what about you two, Robin, Corm, how did you get together? You form such a cute couple!” Mackenzie asked. “Last we heard Corm was in the military on and off with frigging Charlotte, and last year we see on the magazine she married Jago Ross and now you’re a detective!” She looked proud at her friend and Strike wished for Earth to bury him.

“Oh that’s right, I’ve been meaning to ask! Didn’t you give me your resignation to go be with Charlotte because she was pregnant?” Savannah asked, confused. “Yeah, I remember! The baby must be like what, two? I want to see them!” she added excitedly. _God, please kill me_. Strike begged internally. Savannah then realized she had stepped wrong when Lucy, Robin, Nick, Ilsa and Strike himself looked between grim and awkward. “Oh God I said something wrong didn’t I? I’m sorry, forget I said...”

“No, it’s okay,” Strike finally said, calmly. “Funnily enough after having a leg cut off that story almost seems happy,” he said with his dark humour, forcing a little smile. “I _was_ in the army, for ten years, quit and became a detective, as Savannah pointed out, almost three years ago, because I had still been sleeping with Charlotte when I was in the city every now and then and she called informing me she was pregnant. I refused to be a negligent father and didn’t want to miss a minute of it, so came back from Afghanistan as fast as I could.”

“Oh...” Tom nodded. “So there’s a little kid? You had it quiet!” He smiled a little.

“There isn’t actually,” Strike shrugged. He really did find out a story that had kept quiet for years was easy to tell after the hell he had suffered. “Charlotte was too fond of drugs and there were issues with the pregnancy. Our little Elizabeth, Beth like I prefer, was born on December that year, far too early, and dead. I had only proposed to Charlotte believing it was best for the child and without it, our relationship didn’t really make sense, so we separated shortly after. I actually met Robin the day after I left Charlotte, funnily enough.” He added, his lips curved into a little smile towards Robin, who looked proud of him for letting his friends in and squeezed his thigh, returning his smile and kissing his cheek. Strike looked back at his friends and, while Ilsa and Nick seemed busy with the menu, Tom, Mackenzie and Savannah looked a mixture between shocked and sad. “Oh, come on guys, cheer up! It’s alright... It’s okay now, really. Robin and I are very happy together, more than Charlotte ever made me. And Beth wouldn’t have grown happy with parents who didn’t love each other anymore.”

“Is still sad...” Savannah sighed. “But well, you’re a detective now. So how did it happen?”

And Strike and Robin told them how Strike had almost thrown her down the stairs, how they had found comfort in each other through their shared passion for the job and grown into good friends, how they had developed other feelings while Robin was engaged, and how Strike’s mission had pushed them together without a warming up and now Robin was happily divorced.

 


	19. Charlotte has changed

“See? That is one beautiful love story,” Mackenzie said satisfied, raising her wine for them. “I wish you all the happiness in the world. So very deserved.”

“Thanks,” Robin smiled warmly.

“And now we’re going to have a little Herbert baby, best times to be alive,” Mackenzie added, hugging Ilsa, who chuckled, her seven months belly huger by the minute.

As conversation flowed easily in the table, Strike found himself happy to be alive and there, not in the cold Russia anymore. He was sick of Russian, Russians, politics and the military, and felt like he had been given a new opportunity at life. But the loss of his leg still gave him a profound weight in the chest. He adjusted his crutches against the wall so the waitress wouldn’t fall with them while she brought them the dessert, as the others got into a passionate discussion about the best parts of Cornwall, and felt his mobile vibrate in the pocket of his jacket. Taking the call he frowned seeing it was Charlotte and realized he couldn’t go talk in private, since he would have to crutch using both his hands and also, there wasn’t really somewhere private to talk, so he hit the red button. He didn’t even feel like talking to Charlotte, who he had avoided for two years and a half. But a moment later she was calling again, and after two more attempts, Robin noticed his exasperation.

“You can take it, it doesn’t bother us,” Robin said gently.

“I don’t want to, is Charlotte. We haven’t spoken since the break-up, I don’t know what she wants now.” Robin sighed and shrugged.

“Maybe she’s just worried. Tell her to stop calling you and that’s all.” Robin suggested. He accepted and the next time Charlotte called, he accepted the call.

“What do you want, Charlotte?” he asked tiredly. He was greeted by intense crying. He frowned. Charlotte had fooled him more than once; threatening with killing herself was her personal favourite. But he knew fake crying of her by now and this one sounded too realistic. “Charlotte? Charlotte, what’s wrong, are you hurt?” Robin frowned looking at her.

“Bluey,” she sobbed. “Bluey, please!” she kept crying heavily against his ear.

“Alright Charlotte, I’m listening. I’m here. Tell me how I can help you.” Strike said calmly. Lucy gave him a look of ‘whatever it is, don’t fall into the trap’, but he ignored it.

“It’s Jago...” Charlotte sobbed strongly. “H-He hit me, I-I...”

“Jago _hit_ you?” Strike felt his own blood boil. “Is he there? Where are you?”

“H-He left, h-he was j-jealous a-and dr-drunk and h-he hit me,” Charlotte said trying to calm herself down to explain. “I-I came t-to y-your o-office but y-you aren’t here. H-He m-must b-be h-home now i-in h-his mansion... C-Corm i-it hurts...” Strike frowned. He knew Jago Ross had a reputation of alcohol issues.

“Are you in Denmark Street then, Charlotte? Are you still there?” he asked patiently.

“Yes...”

“Alright, just stay there okay? Inside the building. Does Jago know you’re there?”

“No, no...”

“Good. Charlotte, I’m going to call for help. I need you to swear for our daughter that you are telling me the truth.”

“I swear!” Charlotte cried out. Strike knew Charlotte had actually loved Elizabeth. Strike nodded.

“Should I go fetch her?” Robin asked him. Strike tried to think of an idea. He was having dinner with a nurse and a doctor. If Charlotte went to the hospital things would blow to the news too soon, he needed to keep matters quiet and in the car, Charlotte could be with them in less than twenty minutes.

“How hurt are you Charlotte?” Strike asked, concerned. “And have you had dinner?”

“Split lip, bruised cheek,” Charlotte answered breathing deeply to calm herself down. “I pushed him and ran away before he went further... I think I’ve got a twisted wrist... and no, I haven’t, why are you asking me all this?”

“Alright, did you come by car?”

“Yes, why?”

“I’m legless, Charlotte, that’s why. Get in your car and drive to the City Social. Text me when you’ve parked in the parking lot and my partner Robin will come to fetch you and help you look decent so no one suspects, alright? You’re coming for dinner, I’ll deal with Jago.”

“Okay... thank you Bluey, really.” Charlotte breathed out in relief.

“Just don’t call me Bluey. Call me if anything happens, see you.” He hung up.

“Whatever she said she’s lying, that’s the only thing she knows to do,” Lucy hurried herself to say, her plate of dessert clean in front of her.

“I know, but this isn’t a lie. I know her sincere tone because is as rare as watching northern lights from Cornwall,” Strike sighed. “I’m sorry guys, I need to take care of this. Seems like Charlotte’s husband hit her, I told her to come right away since I can’t quite go there fast and she’s got a car.”

“It’s okay, better she comes if she’s telling the truth. I’ll look after her if she’s hurt.” Nick said with concerned expression.

“Yeah, me too,” Mackenzie nodded. “That guy does have a fame...”

“Yeah, and he better have a good explanation,” Strike went through his contacts’ list.

“What are you going to do?” Robin asked worried. “You can’t kill him.”

“I won’t, this is for the Met to handle. But I only know one person who will keep matters quiet. Richard Anstis.” He called and Anstis picked up quickly.

“What’s up mate?” Anstis asked.

“Hi, look, I’ve got strong reasons to believe Charlotte’s husband, you know who...” he added seeing they were too surrounded by people to say his name.

“Jago Ross?”

“Yes. I think he hit Charlotte, I’ll see her in a few minutes, I’ll take care of her tonight if it’s true, which I honestly believe it is. Could you pay him a visit tomorrow, keep things quiet? You know the gossip of this, I’d rather give Charlotte some time to sort herself out before this blows.”

“Jesus Christ, we just admonished him two nights ago for causing a fight at a pub, he was wasted!” Anstis sighed. “Will do. Thanks for being such a good friend.”

“I’m not her friend, but she’s my daughter’s mother.” Strike replied. He hung up and sighed. “Ah, why is it that every time I’m enjoying myself something has to ruin it?”

“With a bit of luck the night isn’t ruined. We’ll give a few drinks, see how she feels better soon,” Savannah shrugged. “Did he... rape her or...?”

“No... Charlotte’s a good fighter, she managed to get out with only a purple cheek she said, maybe a twisted wrist. Nothing too bad, thankfully.” Strike explained. “My friend Anstis is in the Met. Just told me Ross got himself into some trouble with them for causing a pub fight a couple nights ago, said he was wasted.”

“So we’re going to have to feel sad for her,” Lucy sighed. She hated Charlotte, they all did, but they were all nice people incapable of not offering help to someone like that. Strike nodded and a few minutes later, Charlotte texted she was in the parking lot and Robin and Mackenzie went to fetch her so Mackenzie could make sure she was okay. Robin brought her make-up in her purse to cover the bruise so no one would suspect.

A few minutes later, the three came in, looking tense but otherwise alright. Charlotte always dressed somewhat elegant, so she didn’t seem out of place, although Strike, observant as he was, could notice the way her lip was slightly swollen in one side, one of her cheeks looked to have a thicker cape of make-up, and her eyes were slightly swollen from crying. Robin moved a chair between Strike and Savannah for Charlotte and the three sat down after Charlotte quickly greeted and then hugged Strike.

“Thank you so much, I didn’t know who to go to,” Charlotte told Strike with a true expression of gratitude. “And thank you all for letting me join you,” she added, looking at the others. Strike squeezed Robin’s hand softly. He knew Robin, who had been raped and then married someone who always had problems with her, would’ve never turned her back on someone in Charlotte’s feet.

“Don’t worry girl, you’re safe now. Waiter! The best wine you’ve got for this lady,” Savannah said pointing at Charlotte. The waiter nodded and went for it and Charlotte managed a small smile of gratitude.

“I called Anstis, he’ll take care of things in the morning,” Strike told Charlotte, who nodded. “Anstis won’t find him in pieces, won’t he?” he added just to be sure. He knew better than anyone how aggressive Charlotte could get.

“Not a bruise,” Charlotte assured. “I only pushed him because he was blocking the door, that was all. I promise,” Strike nodded. Charlotte looked thinner than he remembered and with bigger bags under her eyes, that she had put a lot of effort to cover with make-up. “This is not the first time, you know? This is... routine for us. But yesterday I visited Eli and...” Charlotte sighed. “I decided the next time would be the last. You’re the only person I could think of to help, I’m sorry for bothering and all...”

“It’s alright,” Strike brushed it off. “What happened between us and my low opinion of you don’t change the fact that you’re still my daughter’s mother and I will care for you as such. But you’ll have to find somewhere to sleep tonight, I don’t have a flat or anything.”

“You could stay in the sofa,” Robin suggested. Charlotte looked confused and she blushed. “Cormoran and I... we’re together. My flat only has one bed, but there’s a sofa. If you have nowhere else to go.”

Charlotte smiled small but sincerely and nodded.

“Thank you, Robin. It’s alright, I have money, I’ll go to a hotel. And I’ll call my lawyer, I want a divorce and get as far away as possible from that asshole. Maybe change city.”

“You always liked NYC,” Strike suggested. Charlotte sighed.

“It’s too far away from Eli. I like visiting her as much as possible. She’s all alone in there.”

“She’s got her grandma,” Strike grumbled. “I need to use the loo, excuse me.” By the time he reached the impeccable bathroom with his crutches, he was panting. Oh, he missed his leg so much, it made her insides cringe to look down and see the leg.

“So it’s true I see,” Charlotte commented after Strike left, once she had gulped half of her glass of wine. “About the leg. I saw it on the newspaper the other day.”

“Yes, that’s why he made you come instead of going himself,” Robin explained. “He’s still getting the hang of crutches.” Charlotte nodded.

“What a terrible thing to happen to such good man,” Charlotte commented, to Robin’s surprise, since Charlotte actually seemed to care. “At least he’s alive and home. And you seem like the best one of his girlfriends so far.” She added with a little smile towards Robin, who rose her eyebrows, flattered.

“Thanks.”

When Strike finally made his way back to the table, they were engrossed in a deep discussion about some book and the tension seemed to have dissipated. He had taken his time, apart from the few extra minutes using the loo with a stump required, to afterwards sit on the comfortable armchair in the bathroom and massage his stump a little, like his physiotherapist had taught him.

“Did you finally manage to get it up?” Robin asked in a murmur by his ear, obviously joking. “I was about to go and fetch you...” Strike laughed effortlessly.

“No, I was just massaging the leg. It felt kind of tight,” Strike shrugged, kissed her temple, and tried to catch up with the ongoing conversation. He observed Charlotte seemed happy at last now, more relaxed, managing to laugh even if her eyes weren’t so bright anymore. A while later, Savannah got up to answer a phone call for a few minutes and came back with a huge grin as the topic of conversation in the table died.

“I’ve got great news for you, Mr. Strike and Ms. Ellacott,” she said cheerfully. Robin and Strike looked up with their natural curiosity, looking like cats standing on their back paws.

“Enlighten us?” Strike asked after Savannah dragged the suspense for too long.

“When we coincided in the metro I was on my way back from meeting with the Queen, telling her about your petitions with the decorations and she had promised to consider it. Now Prince William was just calling to confirm the Queen accepted and would like to decorate Robin, Shanker and Hardy. Robin and Shanker will obtain the Queen’s Gallantry Medal for exemplary acts of bravery. Many of the people who have ever obtained it were people who contributed to missions, helped during very complicated situations, rescued people during terror attacks or risked their lives in favour of others, so it seems adequate. As for Hardy, the George Medal for great bravery and service to the country.”

“Awesome,” Strike looked proudly at Robin, who looked astonished.

“What I do not understand,” Robin commented perplexed. “Is why are we getting decorations for something any decent human being would do.”

“That tells you something about how many decent human beings there are,” Ilsa joked, and they laughed. Strike felt the night had suddenly ended on a high note.

 

 

 


	20. Windsor Castle, long speeches and decorations

When the day finally came for them to receive their honours, Strike was nervous. He sat in the bathtub, his uniform perfectly ironed folder over the toilet, his shoes extra bright thanks to Robin’s care, sitting neat the sink, trying to wrap his mind around the day waiting for him. It wasn’t that he was nervous of doing something wrong, like Robin and Shanker were, but nervous of being seen without the leg. Of the world knowing he didn’t have one, seeing it with their own eyes as the event would be live in TV in possibly every news channel, which somehow made it more official. He sank his head in the water and, as he stared at the foam from under it, he came to the realisation that he could only follow Robin’s advice when they had gone to dinner with their friends.

When Strike came out of the bathroom, fully dressed with his red beanie, his dark Royal Military Police tunic with the white belt over it and the red band around his arm with the RMP letters, his decorations on its place, he found Robin with her elegant dress, all ready, sitting on the sofa lost in thought. He looked at her with a light frown and crutched to her. She only realized he was coming when he was already there, as lost as she was in her thoughts, and he let himself fall next to her on the sofa.

“You look really... sexy,” Robin side-smiled a little, passing a hand over his chest. Strike gave a nod and took her hand.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah!” Robin was surprised by his question, and shrugged. “It’s just... I... I deserve this award, right? It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m your girlfriend.” Strike gave her a surprised look and looked seriously at her.

“Robin, I could say whatever I wanted to the Queen and do you think the Queen, being how she is, would let a simple general tell her what to do? If she didn’t think you deserved, the same way me and Savannah do, she wouldn’t reward you no matter what I said. The only thing I did was putting in her knowledge your actions since, you know, I haven’t exactly been talking about what happened. But I did tell them what you did, and they were rightfully impressed. You deserve this.” Robin nodded and formed a bit of a smile.

“Alright, I just wanted to be sure since, you know, there’ll be journalists and all and...” she shrugged. Strike nodded and caressed her soft cheek with his calloused fingers. “Am I... properly?” she asked nervously.

“You look perfect for the occasion,” Strike reassured her, and leaned for a kiss.

It took over an hour to drive to Windsor Castle, outside London. Greg drove Strike, Lucy and Robin in his fancy car and Nick and Ilsa picked Shanker up, while Hardacre and his wife went in another car. Lucy was beaming with pride, and Strike and Robin held hands over the middle seat, both in the back seat each focused on their own window, nervous. Robin’s parents and brothers had come all the way from Masham for the occasion and were in the car behind them, following them for guidance. Strike had met Robin’s parents at the hospital, but he hadn’t quite been seen as her boyfriend, since there he was mostly Robin’s love interest, partner, but it wasn’t the moment nor the place for formal get-to-meet. So this was the first time. Robin and Strike had agreed not to show themselves as a couple in front of journalists.

“Holly mother of...” Robin stopped herself with a hand over her mouth as the group walked towards the impressive Windsor Castle, amazed. Robin, her family and Shanker, where the only ones who had never been there, but since Strike had been awarded before, the others had all been there a couple times. Robin’s reaction, such as a kid going into Disneyland, (similar to when they had gone into Buckingham a few days earlier for a dinner gala with the queen offered to the awarded) made Strike smile adoringly at her as he crutched next to her. He had refused wheelchairs, he wanted to keep the little dignity he had left.

They soon joined an extended group of people in the gardens, such as fellow military men and women, the provisional Prime Minister, some of the royalty and other politicians. 

“Do you realize,” Strike whispered to Robin as they later took their seats at the big room for the event, “we haven’t had one single date yet and we’re already meeting the Queen together?”

“Well if you call this a date, no one will ever be able to topping it,” Robin joked, making him laugh.

As the event proceeded, Savannah stood in all her excellence behind the lectern for her speech as the leader of the Royal Military Police.

“Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the award ceremony for the heroes of Mission...” Strike stopped listening, reaching for Robin’s hand. Through his mind, as Savannah recounted the official version of the complex mission in which they had participated, passed the images of the hell it had been for him, and he appreciated Robin’s gentle squeeze, that brought him back to reality, “...And it is my honour as Deputy Colonel Commandant of the Royal Military Police, General Lady Savannah Thorton, to award the most distinguished decoration in the UK, the Victoria Cross, as well as his knighting, to General Cormoran Strike; the very distinguished George Medal to Lieutenant Graham Hardacre, both well-known members of the Royal Military Police’s Special Investigation Branch, and in another side, reward civilians Albert Avery,” Robin looked shocked at Shanker, who pretended not to exist as their friends looked surprised that _that_ was his real name. “And Private Detective Robin Ellacott, with none other than the Queen’s Gallantry Medal, all of whom have been responsible, as we’ll soon elaborate on, of this mission’s success, of General Strike’s return alive, of a dangerous criminal’s neutralization, and of a traitor no longer serving as our Prime Minister, but burning in hell.”

“They can’t really say that thing of ‘coming back alive and in one piece’, can’t they?” Strike joked darkly, whispering to Robin’s ear. Robin resisted a laugh and inclined towards his ear.

“Technically, you _are_ in one piece.” Strike chortled, camouflaging it as a laugh as Robin giggled and they both paid attention to Savannah as she went into detail about Shanker’s work.

“I asked Sergeant Strike, as close friend of both Mr. Avery and Ms. Ellacott and as the person who got them involved in the mission, to describe himself why he thought they were deserving of the Queen’s Gallantry Medal, awarded for ‘exemplary acts of bravery’, to those who put someone else first even if it’s at the cost of their own lives, without expecting anything in return, just to do the brave, good thing,” Savannah explained solemnly. “I thought no one was better than him to talk about both of them. So please, Sergeant Strike, whenever you’re ready.”

Robin looked at Strike surprised, and Strike crutched his way to stand in Savannah’s place. He pulled a paper from his pocket, and read after clearing his voice:

“When faced with the truth that someone as relevant as our Prime Minister had betrayed me and was a traitor to our country, I soon found it impossible to trust anyone in the military or the government, I wasn’t sure there weren’t more traitors, and I feared for my own life. I couldn’t even bring myself to trust Lieutenant Hardacre anymore, despite our history having only given me reasons to trust him with my life.” He read slowly, deeply and clearly, with his strong but low-pitched voice, knowing he had all the time in the world, since he had been to those events to know people just wanted to beam of pride for the people awarded, and then make documentaries about them, and loved to hear those things. Strike himself had watched many of those documentaries. “So when I finally had a briefcase full of the stolen material and the results of my investigations, I didn’t want for it to fall on army’s or government’s hands, just in case. If the Prime Minister could be a spy and a traitor, practically anyone in my mind could. Therefore, when I convinced Lieutenant Hardacre to send Mr. Avery to Boden, Sweden, where I’d wait for him to fetch the briefcase, I did it knowing there was no other person I could trust. I’ve known Mr. Avery for almost my whole life, and he’s always been there for me in any way I’ve needed, however, it was rarely expecting nothing in return. When Lieutenant Hardacre sent him, I thought Mr. Avery would need a lot of convincing and that the Lieutenant would have to offer him a generous pay, but I recently discovered Mr. Avery only needed to hear I had asked for him to do it, to accept the dangerous mission, feeling honoured, and that Mr. Avery also refused to be rewarded for it. I myself had to convince him to accept the Queen’s Gallantry Medal.’

>> ‘Mr. Avery risked his life to come to Norway to my encounter, to get that briefcase, and bring it straight to the Royal Family, as I had convinced Hardacre to tell him, supposing even if he was a spy, seeing Mr. Avery I would still be able to ensure he went to the Royal Family and never gave the briefcase to anyone else. Mr. Avery knew the challenge. He had never left London, he doesn’t speak anything but English, and he’s a pure man of the street, trained in street-fighting and knife-fighting, not a challenge for two such dangerous Russian criminals. Yet I had no one else to trust, I was desperate, and only for that did I dare to ask him such a favour. Mr. Albert accepted the challenge gladly I would say, and he came as fast as he could, ready to die to protect that briefcase and make sure it went to the Royals. When we met, he was even planning of taking me back to London, he said I couldn’t come back because both criminals would kill me, he tried to convince me to go with him. He always worried about my safety first. And my well-being, he brought me a holdall with all my favourite, most missed British products.” Strike added on a more comical note, causing some giggles. He proceeded.

>> “Then later he was chosen by Ms. Ellacott and Lieutenant Hardacre to come help me, and even though I’ve never told anyone before, I have, to this day, the vivid memory of looking down at my bleeding stump, having such cardiac issues I couldn’t speak, and seeing Mr. Avery crystal clear, a man I had known for throwing up at too grotesque things and believe me, my leg at that moment was more grotesque than anything a  _Saw_ movie has ever shown... he was just kneeling there, doing a perfect tourniquet with his own belt, using his own jacket to try keep the leg from bleeding. All his medical knowledge came from the street, but it was good, and without it I probably would’ve been long gone before reaching England. It wasn’t just that. The last I remember before fainting were both his and Lieutenant’s words of reassurance,” Strike felt himself get worked up at the memory and breathed deeply, turning aside for a moment to brush his eyes, clear his voice, and continue. “Telling me I’d be home soon, finally, after three long months, telling me I was safe. I knew I was. With them, I would’ve even died at some peace, knowing they’d bring whatever was left of me home. And Mr. Avery never wanted nothing but to have me home and have things be okay again, so we could all just go back to normal. I know he wanted for it all to just be a very disgusting nightmare. He didn’t dream with a big economical compensation, he didn’t dream with honours... I know him and I know all he thought was of getting his friend home. So I’m sure he deserves this honour. He’s not only shown enormous bravery and strength, but he’s shown great camaraderie, immense loyalty, and to me, now, I’m surer than I’ve ever been that he’s more my brother than my friend, and that I will always be able to count on him, just as he’ll count on me. I owe him my life.” Strike looked straight into Shanker’s tearful eyes, both nodding at each other in silent salute and reaffirmation of their thick friendship, and Savannah called him in to receive his medal for the Queen. 

Strike stood proudly supporting himself on his crutches, and smiled at him. He couldn’t believe how far Shanker had gone and now he’d take the good economical prize that he was also receiving and start over clean, ugly businesses done. As Shanker had said himself ‘I’ll become a studied man like you, mate, that’s what I want! Then, nice place, nice girl, and just enjoy’. They observed Shanker standing up nervously in his best suit, in such a clean appearance, elegant even, that surprised Strike, who thought he could’ve easily thought he was someone else, and then, after Shanker humbly accepted his medal from the Queen herself, it came Robin’s turn and Strike again took a deep breath. If Savannah had beamed in pride talking about the mission and how successful they had been, Strike was willing to do even more for Robin. Her own eyes were already tearing up at the fact that it would be Strike who told the world who she was, that the words would be honest and full of meaning, instead of some military, very rehearsed formula. It made it all the more special.

“Ms. Robin Ellacott has been my partner in the private detective agency I founded between my two military periods, for quite some time now. She first came into my life around the time in which model Lula Landry was killed and she quickly proved to be an important asset, an invaluable partner, a bright mind, and a heart fat of kindness, selflessness, compassion and a need for justice. She’s been astonishing me for years, always outdoing herself, becoming better and better. Smarter, clever, more intelligent, braver, stronger, more defiant, and a fearless, unbeatable, warrior. Along with these precious qualities, Ms. Ellacott has always stood out for her compromise with the truth, justice, her limitless loyalty, her honesty, her honour, her morals, her values and her reliability. Therefore is no wonder I would’ve trusted her with my life any given day. She’s saved it twice now, after all, and, as she pinpointed to me on the last time we met before my mission, ‘we’re partners. We take care of each other, we have each other’s backs, we’re there to save each other’s ass when trouble comes, even murderers. We’ve always done that.’ I hope we can keep doing that forever,” Strike added with a little smile directed to Ms. Ellacott. “She’s no ordinary human. Before this mission, to me, she already deserved a few great merits. She was an essential part of a few of our investigations, being relevant into putting murderers like John Bristow, Elizabeth Tassel and Donald Laing in prison, and as challenging, difficult as dangerous as those missions got, particularly Laing’s, who managed to attack her directly, she never quivered. She was always a lion, ready to keep fighting, keep making justice, keep doing the right thing. I had no doubt she was essential for the outcome of this mission too. I had never a shade of a doubt that if someone could help me with the mess I had on my hands, that was Robin Ellacott.”

>> “When Mr. Albert and I met in Sweden, like I explained before, I only knew I could trust Shanker. I wished to protect Ms. Ellacott, whom I had left in charge of my agency, at all costs, and in that moment, in full knowledge of how much of cold-blooded, sanguinary criminals these were, I knew they could easily murder Ms. Ellacott if I made a mistake, revealing too much and putting them after her. I couldn’t tell Shanker exactly what to tell Ms. Ellacott because I didn’t know if her phone was being pinched by our ex-minister, I didn’t know if her emails and letters were being read, or if there were microphones put around our office. I could only trust paper. Of course, I knew paper can end up in the wrong hands by mistake, it would’ve had to do a long trip from Boden to London still, and nothing assured me that Shanker wouldn’t be murdered and the paper, end in enemy’s hands. So it couldn’t contain any clear piece of information.”

>> “I decided on Ms. Ellacott for all the qualities I’ve said about her. She was the only person with the brains and skills to help that I could fully trust with something so important. My mission was complete; the information was back in British hands. But I knew I had to stay because otherwise there wouldn’t be enough proof against our PM, and both him and Nazimova would still be able to work something against us with the information in their brains, working for the Tsar. I knew they had to be found and either arrested or killed before they talked, and for that to happen, I had to go back to Russia. I also knew this would most likely end with my death, but that I had to bring them with me if such case, and I needed for Ms. Ellacott to collect enough evidence for me, as I knew she’d be able to do better than me because she wasn’t being watched, or so I suspected, because I had seen how men often disregarded her, considering her just some chick incapable of being any problem to them and in their arrogance, they wouldn’t bother with her unless I gave them clear reasons. This evidence would prove, even if I didn’t make it home, that he was a traitor and Ms. Ellacott would be able to send trustworthy military, which I also needed for her to figure out who they were, after them. A part of me also thought that she’d find my body to bring it home. I knew there wasn’t much time, only two days passed between seeing Mr. Avery and being ambushed by these criminals, and back in the moment of deciding on Ms. Ellacott, I didn’t think I could get two days, even though I was hoping to give Ms. Ellacott more time before I confronted them. This is the note I wrote for Mr. Avery to give Ms. Ellacott.”

The piece of Lord Byron’s quote was projected on a wall from a computer and everyone read it in silence. Strike continued.

“As you can see, it’s cryptic enough to pass as nothing important to two Russian mercenaries that, as I had studied their academic career, had never exceeded at literature. Ms. Ellacott, on the contraire, did not only excel all through her education up to University, but I knew she was particularly fond of Lord Byron, knowing him well. This is what I hoped this text, and the manner in which it was given by me, would reveal, and I’ve made my own estimation than myself and most soldiers, policemen and politicians would need about a couple weeks to even suspect this from that simple text.” Strike continued reading, as he frequently looked at the public. Robin looked down, blushed, trying not to cry strongly, and Linda rubbed her back soothingly. Robin just felt too emotional. No one had ever bragged of her and valued her like that.

“>> 1\. That we had a traitor who had betrayed us,” Strike read. “2. That I didn’t even trust Lieutenant Hardacre or our Prime Minister. 3. That I didn’t know who to trust. 4. That I was in danger. 5. That it was all in her hands. 6. That she needed to figure out who was trustworthy and who wasn’t. 7. That once she found out who our Prime Minister was, as I had no doubt this text would make her do, she had to collect all proof against him. 8. That she had to find him and get the ones she had investigated were trustworthy after him and Nazimova. 9. That if she could she should also find me. 10. That I was going solo, and she was my only hope.” Strike read slowly, like a list. “This would ensure that the second mission, finding and neutralizing the criminals, and making sure our country was safe, would be completed with or without me. I hoped to be lucky enough to do all that job before they got to escape, as I wasn’t sure Ms. Ellacott would do the miracle she did to find them fast enough to send the military after them. Like I said, I estimated a couple weeks, at least several days, for her to get all of this out of that. I was happy if she only got a little bit, as long as the mission was completed. Ms. Ellacott did all of this in two days and two nights, even less, since in two days and two nights Mr. Avery and Lieutenant Hardacre were already with me, sent by her, so she figured it out with time enough to get them there. Most of the evidence used against our Prime Minister also came from her investigations, as she was also the one to reassure us there was only one spy in our people. The confirmation of her investigation came later, made by the military, and it didn’t bring anything new that Ms. Ellacott didn’t already know.”

Robin felt eyes on her as people murmured, looking at her and talking about her, impressed. She breathed deeply and touched her eyes with a tissue.

“For all of this, she’s been deemed more than deserving of the Queen’s Medal for Gallantry. She was stoic, intelligent like no one else, fast, efficient and brave. She knew if any spy found out what she was doing she’d be dead in displeasing ways before she could ask for help, but she still did it. That tells you who she is. If the news call me the hero, she certainly is mine. She’s the main cause why I’m here today to tell you all of this. I’m sure she was scared, but that didn’t stop her. She let bravery fill her, she let the need for justice, the urgency to do the right thing, to keep me safe and to neutralize the enemy, fuel her, and for the first time ever, she did it all alone. She didn’t have my usual help receiving crimes, and she was the most efficient I’ve ever seen someone be. Better than me at my own job.” He added in a more comical note, causing some more laughter. “Ms. Ellacott sets the example for all of us, showing us how it is done, without expecting anything in return but justice. I look up to her and once again, I owe her my life. She’s one of the multiple examples in this room of why men should never underestimate a woman.” He added jokingly, causing some laughter as the Queen and Savannah were there too, as powerful, badass woman.

 


	21. Sir Robin Ellacott

Once Shanker and Robin received their medals, Strike sat back with her receiving a strong hug from her, who wept softly against his shoulder for a mere moment before grinning at him and thanking him. After Savannah presented Lieutenant Hardacre, he too was awarded, and then Savannah went on and on for what Strike considered an exaggerated amount of time about Strike’s merits not just in this mission but over the years, since he joined the army at age 20. He spent that time zoning out and Robin had to elbow him to get up and receive it. He smiled politely at the Queen, stretching her hand and accepting the Victoria Cross.

“Would it be okay for you to kneel for the knighting?” the Queen asked him in a bare whisper so no one else would hear, which Strike appreciated. He nodded, having forgotten about _that_ , and carefully, using his crutched, he knelt on his amputated knee, supporting on his good food. He observed with certain fear how the old woman lifted the very heavy sword against his shoulders and then he stood again, was put on the knighting medal, and just like that, was Sir Cormoran Strike, which sounded stupid to him.

He stayed behind to chat with some other big birds and after a few minutes he joined his friends and family outside in the garden, under the blazing sun, that was already making him sweat, his arms tired already. The group, that were standing chatting happily, turned to smile at him as he joined them, panting.

“Well well, if it’s none other than _Sir_ Cormoran _Blue_ Strike,” Robin mocked for his amusement, making him chuckle.

“You’re just jealous you haven’t been named _Sir_ Robin Ellacott.” He joked, making her laugh.

During a dinner offered that night at the Herberts’, Strike realized Robin’s family seemed to be determined how perfect of a boyfriend he was for their daughter, and it must’ve gone well, because by the time they said their final farewells, Strike was pretty certain Linda was already whispering wedding plans to her husband. Strike also loved the Ellacotts. He found them made of the same wood as Robin, a humble, loving family from Yorkshire who were so pure it was hard to believe, and made him feel like a brother more of the big clan, loved and warm. Robin’s uncle, Charlie, was the most protective of Robin, but even he seemed to be impressed with Strike.

Strike practically fainted in bed, dressed and all, and when he woke up in the morning Robin was already working in the kitchen, he was still with the stump covered by its protective materials and bandages and he was in his boxers and underwear t-shirt (he felt a warm pang in his heart at how Robin had made him comfortable and kept his uniform ironed while still respecting his wish for her to not see his nude body) and there was a nice smell and music coming from the kitchen. Strike got up and found Robin dancing and singing to ‘Girls just wanna have fun’ in the kitchen while flipping bacon in a pan, almost completely dressed except for the fact that she wasn’t wearing more than her panties below her waist. He grinned like a teenager at the view and Robin almost got a heart attack, jumping when she noticed him, and blushing.

“You ass,” Robin laughed, going for a kiss after she recovered.

“That was nice,” Strike looked all loving at her. “I love you.” Robin blushed and smiled a little.

“I love you more,” Robin murmured shyly.

As they devoured their breakfast, Strike contemplated expressing a thought that had been in his mind for some time now.

“Now I’ve got plenty of money. We could hire a secretary, put on a sofa that doesn’t fart, repaint the walls to get rid of the humidity stains, even give you the pay raise you deserve,” Robin hummed in approval, sipping her tea. “I was also thinking of getting my own flat.” Robin chocked and started coughing violently. When she recovered, she looked at him with a confused and hurt expression.

“Did I do something wrong? Don’t you like it here?”

“Robin, this has nothing to do with you. Believe me, being here with you is perfect, you’re dreamy,” Strike reassured her. He had already imagined this could happen, and took her mug gently, placing it on the table before reaching to hold her hand over the little sofa. His greenish eyes looked into Robin’s blue-gray ones with nothing but affection. “The reason we started living together so soon, when we haven’t even had a proper date yet for how busy we’ve been, was because I was just recovering from a coma, a brain concussion and a lower limb amputation. In the moment, it was the best choice available. I didn’t feel I could do this without you. But now thanks to you and everyone else, and with all the physiotherapy, I feel ready. I miss my independence, I miss the feeling that I can do well on my own without any help, and the physiotherapist even said we could start trying out prosthesis in the next few days. I need to find my own place for me, Robin, as perfect as living with you is. Because before I can feel like the boyfriend you deserve, I need to know for certain that I don’t _depend_ with you, that I’m just with you because I want to and I love you, but not because otherwise I couldn’t live a normal life. I need to regain my confidence and self-esteem and for that to happen I need to be doing as much on my own as I can. You have no idea how happy it would make me, how well it would make me feel if I could see myself succeeding at living alone, stump and all. Learning to deal on my own with my physical challenges, and even the psychological ones, without being as dependent, as I feel I am on you. It’d make me feel so well to see I don’t need constant psychological help, or physical, to see I can do this and I will still be able to do this if for whatever reason we stopped getting alone, I’d feel so powerful again, capable, strong... the way I used to be. The way I want your boyfriend to be. I want my dignity back, Robin, and certain things of my old life, that you don’t know how hard I miss.” Strike explained, slowly. Robin seemed to understand and nodded slowly.

“Alright, seems appropriate... but what does this mean for us?”

“I think it’ll be good for us. Robin, at a speed far too fast for me to properly assimilate, I’ve been stolen of my life, my job, my flat... my independency. My ability to feel like a full person on my own, capable of doing everything without needing anyone. I was fit, I was an athlete, I was strong, I was a lion. And now I feel like an ugly old lion too battered to do anything on its own anymore, limping through life. I know that’s not how you see me,” Strike added quickly at Robin’s attempt to reassure him. “But some things I can’t feel them unless I see them for myself. Unless I can prove myself I can still be who I was, that I just had to adjust and things will be able to regain some sort of normalcy. That’s the boyfriend you should have. I can’t be your patient. I can’t be someone you need to help so much, even if you do it happily. Trust me, I’ve always been trying to save everyone I dated... eventually it’ll break you. When I have my worst, depressive days sinking in alcohol and being aggressive? I’ll need my own place to chill without endangering anyone and where to relax and work on myself. I need to focus on myself and be the man you deserve and as much of the man I was as I can. I won’t settle for less. And you,” Strike sighed, and shrugged. “You’ve just recently divorced. You’ve never lived alone, more than when I was gone. I think it would do you so much good and empower you even more, to live alone for a year or two, I don’t know, until we both agree is a logical, good step in our relationship to move in together naturally, not forced by the circumstances. I think you need it as much as I do. And I think it’ll only grow us better, make us closer, strengthen our relationship. We’ll both get to be strong, independent, complete people, sharing their lives, not completely dependent on each other. I’d love it even more if you went back to martial arts, or whatever extra-curricular activity you want. Find something that is just yours, you know? Away from me. Something that makes you happy and complements your job with me, something that brings you a ton of friends that are only yours and will always be there regardless of how your relationship with me gets, invariable. Matthew pushed you to only have him. I want to push you to have a bunch of other stuff and other people aside from me and our job. I want to make sure that no matter what, you never _need_ me in a dependent way, that you always feel you can do _great_ without me, with only emotional hurt if I wasn’t there, and nothing else. Yesterday, you saw how everyone admired you? How amazingly you did all on your own? _That’s_ how capable and powerful you are. And you should be thriving for even more.”

Robin looked at him as if he had just slapped her. He was  _right_ . She didn’t have friends on her own, she went from job to life, and job was becoming her entire life, which was awesome for her passion, but not so good for a healthy lifestyle. She could use something outside from work. And she could use a house for herself, spending time with herself, working on her and seeing her boyfriend when possible, like normal people. Robin had noticed too how she felt scared sometimes of being alone or lonely, when she had been the girl riding horses and mastering cars once, and now the idea of being so alone seemed depressing. But Robin saw his point. They both could use some independency to make sure they were happy, full, independent people before committing to someone else. And she fell a bit further for him. Once again he was the antithesis: Matthew had been a control freak, stripped her from her freedom, made her weaker and dependant, thinking he was all she had without realizing she had herself, and made sure she was tied to him. Strike offered freedom, encouraged her independency, her ability to be a strong woman away from him and only share with him what she, and only she, wanted.

Without being able to help herself, she grinned and kissed him passionately.

**. . .**

Over the next few weeks, as they reached hot June, Robin helped Strike to find a nice flat with elevator, something small that made life easy for him with his crutches, and that was prepared for disabled people. Although Strike’s goal was to be able to manage himself no matter if the place was prepared for his needs or not, Robin convinced him to make this flat his ‘training’ flat, so he could slowly start learning, without overworking himself. He, immersed in excitement, just nodded vigorously. In the process, Robin too decided to find a new, more decent place, since now thanks to her award she had more than enough money for that. Hell, she could even get a car if she wanted. So they decided together to get flats that were somewhat closer between them so they could sneak at each other’s homes for movie nights or sleep together when they missed each other, and they decided they should also be close to Denmark Street to save commuting time and save Strike’s commuting effort, and at the same time, taking advantage, Strike’s place could be closer to the London Bridge Hospital, where his physiotherapist was. That’s how they decided for Islington and Hackney, and the later ended up winning because they fell in love with the places they found there.

Finally, they decided on a nice ground floor at a small building of flats without lift for Strike, in Clapton Square, which was at a good zone, surrounding a nice green park and near easy transports and overground. The building was entered through barely three steps, which Strike could easily climb, and gave the flat some separation from the street, for Strike’s preference. Robin in the meantime chose a fifth floor of an apartment building with lift, a couple streets southern from Strike’s flat.

When they finally visited Strike’s new home, he was more than content. A couple big windows at the sitting-room-kitchen gave him great views of the park, he was still a prudent distance from the crosswalk so passersby wouldn’t be too close, and the neighbourhood was calm, relaxing, all he needed for his recovery. He entered the building door and confronted a staircase that he did not climb. To his left was the white wooden door of his place. He opened it, Robin following close behind, and they saw a short corridor. On the left, a small door indicated a built-in closet, on their right there was one door of one bedroom, and, a bit further in the corridor, another door of the other bedroom. Both bedrooms were small, just big enough for a big bed and nightstands, along with maybe a chest of drawers and the build-in closets, and both had a window to the back patio the building had. At the end of the corridor was a small bathroom with a bathtub and all, and right as you reached that wall, you turned to the left and entered the sitting room, a window right in front of you showing the views of the park, and between them and the window, a small brown sofa and a coffee-table. To their left, the room became a kitchen, small, with the second window in front of it and, right by the window, a small table with a couple chairs. The whole place came furnished.

The floor was wooden except for the blue-gray dark, soft carpet of the bedrooms, and the walls, shades of white, beige and gray. It was pretty fantastically illuminated and the amount of windows added space and made Strike feel less in a cage.

“This,” Strike murmured, smiling at Robin. “Is a home.”

“I love this for you,” Robin grinned at him, squeezing his hand.

The first few days living alone were hard on both of them. They’d feel lonely, they’d miss each other... but work brought them back together for most of the day and then Strike was off to physiotherapy and Robin, off to her classes of personal defence, that she was going back to twice a week and, once a week, she had samba dance classes.

“How does it feel?” Jason, Strike’s physiotherapy, asked him as Strike gave his very first tentative steps on his first prosthesis ever, his fists holding onto a bar at each side of him. They were at the hospital working on getting him back to moving and Jason, a young ex-soldier who lost both legs from thighs down in Afghanistan and who represented overcoming for all of his patients, was looking at him intensely, standing near him.

“It’s weird...” Strike murmured, a bit afraid still of putting weight on the prosthesis, walking slowly. But despite the strange sensation, he smiled. “Look at me Jason, I’m walking again!” Jason laughed. That was his favourite part, when his patients were finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel that he knew far too well.

His twenty-six-year-old brown eyes scanned Strike’s prosthesis, analysing the way he walked for any possible changes the prosthesis may need, as he gave Strike some verbal indications on how to direct his movement, where to put the weights and how much, the way his back should be or how much to lift each leg.

After an intense couple hours, Jason took the prosthesis off Strike, listening to any suggestions of Strike about the shape and comfort of it, to get some fixing before giving him one he could start using on a daily basis.

“Alright,” Jason chuckled, satisfied, his messy black hair pointing all directions. “Excellent work Cormoran, I think in two days I can give you a definitive prosthesis for you to take home, start trying it out, getting your stump used to it and writing down annotations for improvement of the prosthesis. You should now people tend to end up growing quite a collection of these.” He added jokingly. Strike grinned happily, content for finally being able to walk again. Now he could finally ask Robin on a first date.

“That’d be excellent Jason, I have big plans incoming!” Strike commented enthusiastically as he removed his sweaty t-shirt in the comfortable manner men and, particularly, soldiers, did between them, to change into something dry. Jason raised his eyebrows, glad to see the excitement in the grumpy man.

“Oh really? Girls?” Strike laughed and nodded.

“My girlfriend of around two months now, we still haven’t been on a date. I want to plan something special for her,” Strike explained, blushing. “And I want to pick her up, you know? With flowers in one arm, the other hand free to hold hers...”

“Lucky girl!” Jason laughed. “Come on, show me.” Strike opened his wallet and, not without feeling his face warm to his ears, he pulled out of it a small photograph of Robin, in the middle of a laugh, and showed it to Jason. “She’s beautiful... I correct myself, lucky you!” he laughed, returning the photo. Strike laughed too, and nodded.

“Robin...” Strike looked at the photo fondly, feeling warmth all inside of him. “She’s my hero, you know? Saved my life, this woman. Twice. And she’s always looking after me, taking care of everything one step ahead, and loving me even when I don’t deserve it. She deserves a very special first date.”

“Indeed man. Well now,” Jason commented, handing him his shoes. “Take good care okay? Don’t overwork trying to be even better. Just take it easy, by the way you talk about her she sounds like someone who’s going to love you even if you show up in gym clothes. But you cannot make yourself worse all of the sudden, after all this progress, as stupidly as for trying to impress her.”

Strike went home feeling like the sun was brighter than ever, the birds sang, and he was the luckiest man in the world. He allowed himself the pleasure of a cigarette, that he now only took once or twice a day because he knew it wasn’t the best for his leg and Robin refused to kiss him with smoke breath, and bought himself a good pint at a pub as a reward for his efforts. When he finally made it home, he showered, changed clothes, and crutched his way to Robin’s place enjoying the fresh air of June evenings against his face.

“Hello!” Robin sang with a grin from ear to ear as she opened her flat door for him, stopping him for a kiss. “I was just changing after samba,” she added as Strike’s eyes stopped in her after-shower appearance, a shirt yet to be put over her bra, her hands still holding a towel to dry her hair. Strike nodded and closed the door behind him, following Robin further into the house. “How did it go today? You seem cheery.”

“I am,” Strike admitted. “It’s going really well. We tried out my first prosthesis.” He announced like a child who was dying to show off his good grades. Robin turned to look at him.

“Oh, congrats! That’s wonderful Corm!” she kissed him again, squeezing his cheek with eyes full of pride. “Was it nice, I suppose?”

“Yeah! It feels really weird, but Jason said I’d get used to it. He’s going to start working on building me a nice prosthesis after all the suggestions I made today,” he didn’t want to tell her it would just be a couple days, so he could surprise her later. Robin threw a blouse over her head and opened the fridge getting some nice wine and filling them cups.

“Well then we should celebrate,” Robin handed Strike his cup. “A toast! To better days.” Strike smiled.

“Amen,” he said jokingly, raising his cup and drinking from it, humming in approval. “Oh, this is nice... what did you buy this for?”

“I bought a bottle for my parents when they came and they really liked it so I bought another one for us to try,” Robin chuckled. Strike nodded approvingly, making the golden liquid move in his cup and smelling its scent, for Robin’s amusement.

“Would you go on a first official date with me?” Strike blurted out, surprising Robin. “Saturday, 7PM? I’ll pick you up.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Robin accepted happily, putting her cup aside and reaching to hug Strike, humming approvingly. “I’ve missed you.”

“We’ve been together at the office all morning, we had lunch together,” Strike murmured, putting his cup aside and wrapping an arm around her while the other steadied them with the crutch. He kissed the top of her head. “I’ve missed you too.”

 


	22. Super date

When Saturday came, Strike had already been using his prosthesis behind Robin’s back for a few days, and exercising himself too. He went up and down stairs with the leg, he massaged and bathed the stump, made sure it was all nice and ready every time, like Jason had instructed. He told Robin the dress code was elegant and warm, bought flowers, and walked whistling cheerfully to her flat. When she opened the door, looking stunning as always, with her green dress that Strike would never get tired of seeing on her, and her hair up in a bum with a few curled locks of hair falling perfectly off the bum over her neck, her jaw dropped, looking up and down. Strike smiled as her eyes filled with tears and she covered her mouth with both hands. Strike opened his arms holding the flowers in one hand, and Robin hugged him tightly, loving the feeling of Strike’s arms back where they belonged. Since Strike had always needed his arms to support himself in his crutches, obviously, they hadn’t gotten to hug each other (not just Robin hugging him) in six long months, never as a couple, and it felt so well they both lost their breath for a moment.

Robin laughed through the tears of happiness as they finally separated.

“You can walk!” Robin shouted excitedly, making him laugh.

“I’ve been training for days now, wanted to surprise you!”

“You sure did!” Robin pulled him by the tie for an intense kiss that left him breathless, and they stared lovingly at each other. “Look at you, all tall and handsome. I’m so happy for you, it must feel surreal to walk again all on your own.”

“It is, and it’s perfect. My whole life right now seems surreal and perfect.” Strike kissed her again and then remembered the flowers, and passed them to her. “I know you’re not the flowers’ girl so much but since now I can carry them...” Robin chuckled holding them and humming happily as she smelled them.

“They’re perfect, you are perfect, tonight’s perfect. This date is already impossible to top, I’m afraid.” Robin laughed and went to put them in a vase, and then held onto his arm as they went down to the street.

Strike walked slow and carefully and sometimes he limped a little or swaged to the sides, but Robin didn’t mind at all, and they soon started joking about it and laughing, pretending to be drunkies. Strike for sure felt drunker than ever in his life, the intoxicating perfection of Robin’s cologne filling his lungs, her laugh making his ears tingle. There was a limousine, black and long, stopped just a short walk from Robin’s building and Strike walked them towards it.

“What are you doing?” asked Robin. Before Strike could answer, the chauffeur got out and ran to open the back door for Robin, bowing a little. Robin blushed and looked at Strike, her mouth forming an ‘o’. “What’s this?” Strike smiled.

“Miss Ellacott, please pass inside,” the chauffeur smiled at her, elegant in his tuxedo. Robin got inside the limousine and found a long sofa, a many small windows, the floor covered in roses and, in a little table at the centre, two cups of champagne and a box of chocolate truffles, and romantic ballads sounding very softly in the background.

She felt herself about to cry again. She had never been in a limousine and the idea that Strike had gone so big for a first date was overwhelming. Usually first dates were romantic but little things, giving room for improvement in the next ones, but Strike had gone all or nothing for the first one, which would make topping it, a challenge. Strike soon joined her inside and the chauffeur started driving forward, towards the south.

“This is... amazing. I can’t believe my eyes,” Robin shook her head looking everywhere with her mouth still opened, perplexed. Strike laughed and brought her in for a kiss.

They spent around an hour in the limousine, laughing, kissing, snuggling, drinking champagne and other sorts of alcohol that were there, eating the chocolates, and having the time of their lives. Robin realized, even more amazed, that the limousine was giving them some of the best views, the ceiling being a glass one and also driving them across the outsides of the city, the countryside.

Finally, they stopped at the Bateux London Pier, where a small amount of people was already queuing. Robin flipped.

“What?” Robin asked, looking at Strike, who grinned smugly. “WHAT?! Cormoran Blue, you won’t propose tonight, will you? Because this is perfect, and we can’t possibly... that’s a glass floating restaurant, Cormoran! With bands inside! With... with...!”

“A Platinum Package, to be exact,” Strike laughed. Bateux London were popular for being the thing most romantics dreamed with being able to afford. Robin looked about to faint from excitement, her eyes permanently glassy. “Don’t worry, I won’t propose tonight, I’ll find another way of making that memorable when it happens,” he chuckled at Robin’s incredulity. “This is the Saturday big band day, mixed up with our Platinum Package. Two hours, forty five minutes, Bruno Paillard Brut NV champagne, five course meal, signature wines, after dinner liquors, and a four piece band. Dinner includes delicatessen,” Strike explained, as he had memorized. “Such as butternut squash with coriander velouté, duck liver parfait or carpaccio of heirloom tomatoes, then slow braised feather blade of beef or saffron potato gnocchi, followed by either white chocolate and raspberry ingot or vanilla soya milk panna cotta, truffled _Cornish_ brie and a fair-trade of coffee and tea.” Robin looked at her in silence for a few moments, astonished, before she found her words again, her elegant cardie keeping her from being so cold, as near the river it was always cold and windy.

“I have so many questions,” Robin murmured. Strike laughed looking at her. “Aside from your impressive memory, how in heaven...? like... Jesus Christ we just ate truffles, a lot of them. I shouldn’t have eaten all day...”

“Relax,” Strike kissed her. “Don’t worry about anything tonight. Just enjoy.” They walked a few steps forward in the queue.

“This is way more than I deserve,” Robin whispered to him, blushing. Strike frowned serious and put his index finger under her thin, raising her face to look at him in the eyes in all seriousness.

“This is nothing compared to what you deserve, Robin,” Strike assured, making her blush hard.

“Sir Cormoran Strike and Miss Robin Ellacott?” an elegantly-dressed lady asked them at the entry, checking her list, after Cormoran handed her the reservations.

“That’s us,” Strike smiled at her and she smiled back.

“Enjoy!” the woman let them pass and they were guided to a perfect table by the window, where the waiters moved the chairs for them both to sit at once, and poured them the first cups. Robin was like a child in Disneyland or Hogwarts, absolutely petrified by the magnificence of the night.

“Here’s to us, and happily-ever-afters,” Strike toasted, rising his cup against hers. She smiled tearfully, holding his hand over the table.

“To us.”

They spent a joyful night, laughing through dinner, enjoying the bands, slow-dancing, enjoying the views of London... finally, they left the restaurant-boat with happy stomachs, the shadow of the laugh in their faces, silly smiles of lovers, and the feeling of being high. Strike took her back to the limousine and they were dropped off at St. James’ Park, that wasn’t closed yet. Robin looked surprised as Strike offered her to walk a little, his hands in his pockets as Robin held onto his arm, both enjoying small talk under the stars.

They finally stopped a few streets away, in front of the Corinthia Hotel.

“Come on really?” Robin grinned incredulous. “This is five stars. You’re throwing the army’s money away...”

“I’m _investing my money_ adequately. I can’t think of anyone that deserves all of this more than you do,” Strike grinned, kissing her again, their lips already swollen, as they entered the hotel and acceded their luxury suite, that made Robin’s jaw drop. There was soft saxophone music, red rose petals all across the floor and the bed, and next door there was a Jacuzzi already bubbling for them.

“I didn’t bring a bikini,” Robin whispered, blushing.

“We won’t need clothes at all,” Strike grinned at her, already getting rid of his jacket. Robin’s eyes widened in realization.

“Really?” Robin caressed his face. “Are you sure you’re ready?” Strike nodded.

“I’ve never been more ready.” Strike leaned down, and kissed her deeply.

For a few minutes, they just stood in the room, kissing each other slowly, they weren’t in a rush, they were just enjoying the moment, Robin’s silk lips dancing and colliding against Strike’s thin but thick ones, their hands roaming unhurriedly over each other’s bodies, the soft sound of the deeper kisses filling the room. Then Strike pulled apart and chuckled at Robin when she, with closed eyes, went to lean for another kiss and almost fell forward, opening her eyes startled, and then glaring at him trying to look serious despite the shadow of a smile in her face.

“Why don’t you keep going? I have to get rid of the leg, takes a little bit,” Strike suggested, pulling from his wallet a small folded roll of condoms in its envelopes and handing it to Robin with a chuckle. Robin nodded taking them and blushing with a little smile, smacked his ass playfully and Strike observed amusedly as she carelessly started removing her clothes and throwing them to the ground without further ceremony as she walked to the Jacuzzi, living a trail of garments, looking back over her shoulder at him smugly every now and then until she went into the Jacuzzi room and vanished from sight. Strike then got himself nude and, incapable of leaving things disorganised, he took all their clothes and either hung them in the closet or folded them on an armchair, depending on what it was, leaving the shoes neatly under the armchair. When the only thing left to come off was his prosthesis, he moved the armchair as close to the other room as possible, sat there, carefully retired the prosthetic leg and supported it against the wall, hopping his way into the room. He stood supported on the doorframe and smiled looking at Robin with her eyes closed, sitting inside the Jacuzzi surrounded by bubbles and foam, jazz music still sounding from somewhere, candles lit around the room, the light dimly and the condoms on the floor near the Jacuzzi at arms’ reach. “I could try a sexy pose.” Strike joked, leaning against the frame in a vague attempt of looking all sexy pose. Robin opened her eyes at his voice, looked at him with curious eyes, and laughed hard, making Strike chuckled.

Strike looked the opposite of a turn on. Not only wasn’t him one of those sexy girls in heels, but he looked more like a bear with a stump, trying to appeal sexy. When Robin finished laughing she stared lovingly at him, her eyes glassy from the laughter, her cheeks reddish from the heat, her lips swollen and red with a new layer of the same lipstick that already drew lips across Strike’s skin. She extended a hand towards him.

“C’me here, my knight in shining armour,” she whispered simply. He carefully hopped inside, holding into any furniture at reach, and then very carefully and slowly knelt on the floor and made his way into the Jacuzzi, moaning in delight when he was fully seated. To be truthful, he was still a little nervous to be nude, but the way she looked at him like if he put the moon in the sky made him lose his train of thought, so he couldn’t quite remember to be nervous. Robin moved to kneel between his legs, on the warm Jacuzzi’s floor, and threw her arms around his neck before pulling him into a passionate kiss.

Her hands gripped his hair unceremoniously almost causing pain as the kiss got more passionate and his hands, big as Robin loved them, roamed through her torso and ass cheeks, squeezing and then coming back to the front to fondle her breasts, in repeated slow motions. One of Robin’s hands, as the kiss became a competition to kiss harder and more passionately, lowered through his neck to his strong arms, then his back and strong chest, rubbing his tiny nipples and sometimes squeezing his front and back. She liked to squeeze his muscles and make his curls a mess, and to hear his deep moans and groans like a bear’s purring.

“Stand up, support on my shoulders,” Robin said without using a diligent tone, softly and gently, as she pulled away, her lips swollen and lipstick all over Strike’s face. He put his hands on Robin’s knees and rose up, his member, still only slightly rigid and still pointing down, coming to view. He had trimmed his pubis a little, and so had Robin, thinking that they might go for it that night, which Robin appreciated for being more hygienic, keeping matters short and clean. She looked up at him smiling mischievously and gripped his ass-cheeks with dilated eyes, as he looked down, perplexed with what she was doing. He observed how her hands moved softly to his thighs and then to his cock and suddenly, he was back in Russia, his eyes observing in horror a hand gripped his leg, the other raising a knife...

“Stop!” Strike roared, feeling himself shake, and slumped back in the seat of the Jacuzzi. Robin, startled, pulled back, and looked at him in concern. He was suddenly sitting in the Jacuzzi’s inside bench, surrounded by water and bubbles but looking everything but relaxed. He was murmuring repeatedly ‘no, no, no, no, fuck Jesus, no, no, no’, his elbows on his knees and his palms pressed against his closed eyes, rocking himself back and forth. Robin noticed he was shaking. Robin, understanding something had triggered something, reached a hand to his back but, when she was barely brushing his skin, he pulled back and she retired her hand quickly, as he hissed again, altered: “Don’t touch me!” So Robin kept her hands to herself and looked concerned at him, sitting beside him and trying to think of something she could do to help.

“Cormoran...” Robin whispered softly, leaning towards him to have her lips close to his mouth, but maintaining a cautious distance. “Corm love, it’s okay. It’s just you and me. Just Robin. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” She then realized that Strike was actually crying, just trying to hide it away from her. He was doing huffing noises between ‘nonono’ in rushed whispers, and his hands were actually covering the tears from her. But she could hear it in his breathing, in his altered state, and then he took a deep breath in and let a trembling breath out, and his entire body was shaking as if he was cold. He finally sniffled another deep breath and removed his hands from his face, letting them fall between his legs, his elbows on his thighs, breathing deeply as he calmed his body down. Robin knelt again on the floor of the Jacuzzi in front of them, maintaining a bigger distance than before, and looked at him full of concern. His eyes were glassy and swollen and he had an expression of despair she hoped to never see in him again.

 


	23. Going crazy

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, looking at her full of sadness. “I’m so sorry...”

“It’s okay,” Robin managed a little smile. “We don’t have to do this, Corm. D’you think I’m going to love you, or want you, any less, because you can’t be intimate?”

“Sex is part of any normal...” Strike sighed and shook his head, supporting his forehead on a hand. “I can’t believe this. I planned it all, I feel ready and yet I just...”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Robin asked. “Maybe it has an easy solution and we’re worrying for nothing.” She offered with a sympathetic, optimistic expression.

“I was fine and then,” Strike explained. “When I saw your hands were going to grab my... penis... it was like seeing them grab my leg and... and...” Robin made a soothing sound, reaching to caress his cheek as she felt it wouldn’t be a problem now, and just as she imagined, he leaned his cheek against her touch, closing his eyes.

“Alright well... first things first,” Robin said gently, their skins started to get rosy from the heat of the water. “You haven’t ruined anything, so don’t feel bad. Regardless of this little surprise, this is still the best day of my life, alright?”

“Really?” Strike looked at her, hopeful. Robin smiled and nodded.

“Really. I’ve never lied to you, not going to start now,” Strike sighed in relief, and nodded. “Now... what if, instead of grabbing you and you looking, you just close your eyes and I just... caress you? Like, without closing around your penis. I could just lick or something...”

“Perhaps that works,” Strike shrugged, nodding. “But what about? How am I going to put the condom on or... make love to you?” Robin smiled at his concern, finding it heart-warming, as if her baby boy had asked her if Santa will be mad at him for not having good marks.

“Sweetie,” Strike looked at her straight in the eyes. Robin and him had never really used any sweet or romantic nicknames yet, and the softness of her voice, together with the sincerity in her eyes, was enough to keep his attention on her. “I’ve felt made love to all day. Every time I’m with you, even if it’s just cooking spaghetti or something, I feel so loved, and cared for, and lucky. You don’t need to be inside of me to make love to me hell, you don’t even need to touch me. We’ve literally been making love all day. So if we have to stick to oral, or even to nothing, then we’ll do, and I won’t feel any less satisfied, or loved, or happy, or lucky. I love you as you are, baggage and all, and I know you’d never think any less of me for mine, so why would I do it for yours?”

Strike smiled sincerely at her and cupped her face between his hands, leaning to kiss her deeply, trying to convey all the love and gratitude he felt for her in that moment. When they finally pulled apart for air, he pressed their foreheads together, caressing her puffy cheeks.

“How did I get so lucky with you, uh?” he whispered then, but she just smiled, going for another kiss.

They woke up late the next day, entangled in the sheets and each other. They had restricted to oral and yet ended up totally fulfilled and spent. Strike marvelled on the idea that it seemed as if the more you loved someone, the easier it was to feel sexually fulfilled. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t quite surround him, he hadn’t even missed it. He had just enjoyed it as much. After breakfast in bed, getting dressed again to go have lunch at Nick and Ilsa’s felt like coming home from Hogwarts; a bummer.

As they reached Nick and Ilsa’s house in Octavia Street, Robin observed Strike looked exhausted. She had slept well, despite how late they fell asleep, since they had woken up practically at lunch time and their breakfast had been minimum, reserving for lunch. When Robin woke up, she saw he was already awake and staring lovingly at her, deep bags under his eyes, but in the moment she hadn’t dwelled about it and now, as she saw him yawn for the fifth time in ten minutes, she realized he hadn’t slept.

“Did you sleep at all?” Robin asked softly, holding onto his arm, as she pressed the doorbell of the big house. Strike shook his head, another yawn taking over his mouth.

“Nightmares,” he finally said sleepily, and the door opened.

As Robin attempted to hug Ilsa, who would be giving birth rather soon, Ilsa asked into her ear about the date and awed as Robin made her a brief, quick resume.

“Someone had fun,” Nick commented opening a bottle of wine with a chuckle, looking at Strike.

“I did, but I actually didn’t sleep for my fucking mind,” Strike grumbled, helping him set the table while the girls chatted standing nearby. Nick frowned.

“Again?” Strike nodded. “What does the professional say about that?”

“Which professional?” Strike laughed. “This happened because I was alone in a vulnerable position with two crazy strangers. I’m never, ever, going to be in a room alone, vulnerable, with a stranger again. I swear, Robin had to come when Jason and I met, and for the first five times. And hell will freeze before I open my mind and heart to a stranger.”

“What about Robin?” Nick suggested, putting some napkins on the table.

“If I keep using her as my psychologist, is going to be really hard to define lines between my psychologist and my girlfriend. She can help a bit sometimes but... you know... I need to keep my girlfriend, girlfriend or else,” another yawn. “Our relationship is going to get rather bizarre.” Nick smiled sadly in understanding.

“Corm, why don’t you go lay down for a bit? Lunch isn’t ready yet, I’ll wake you up when it is,” Robin suggested approaching him, stroking his hair lovingly.

“You can use our room, the guest room is already a nursery,” Ilsa suggested not without a small smile in the end at the thought that she was, in fact, having a nursery for a real baby. The reminder seemed to have the same effect on Nick, who looked happily at his wife.

“Alright, thanks,” Strike left the room and, internally thanking Jason for the stairs training, climbed upstairs. He fell asleep seconds after hitting the bed, without even getting to lie properly, his feet outside the bed.

“So did you finally get laid properly last night?” Ilsa asked with a wink as they stood in the kitchen with drinks before lunch, Ilsa obviously not taking alcohol.

“Nope,” Robin shrugged. “But is okay, it was perfect. In the last minute he just... it wasn’t like he was being self-conscious,” she explained, knowing it was okay to talk about these things with them. “Or that he couldn’t... get it up, sort to say,” she blushed, distracting herself with her wine. “But the minute things started getting intense, he freaked out majorly. He said the idea of something surrounding his... that it was like when they grabbed his leg to cut it. You know, the idea of someone grabbing any vulnerable part of him like that, even if it was me. He wouldn’t even let me touch him at all until he calmed down.” When he looked at the marriage, both looked more worried than anything else, so much they weren’t even teasing her about her embarrassment talking about sex with them.

“Shit...” Nick sighed.

“Is that like... a blow to the fragile masculinity of men aside from everything else?” Robin asked with genuine curiosity. Nick shrugged.

“My self-esteem would definitely hurt,” Nick said, grimacing. “I mean, it’s like not being able to get it up in a special night, but adding the suffering of being traumatized. If I went, planned all of that so nice and romantic and then couldn’t manage to do it after months of waiting for it? Man...” he shook his head.

“Yeah...” Robin sighed. “I don’t really mind, but I’m sure he does no matter what I say. If only he could sleep, that’d be an improvement.”

“I thought he slept before?” Ilsa asked, checking the food cooking in the oven.

“Most of the time yes,” Robin replied. “Or at least managed a few hours. A whole night without it... never in my presence, at least. I guess the little PTSD moment must’ve rocked his sleep.”

“I can’t imagine seeing and feeling someone cut my leg off every time I close my eyes,” Ilsa looked disgusted. “Fucking torture.”

“That mouth!” hissed Nick, putting his hands on Ilsa’s belly protectively. “Don’t listen to your mommy Emily, she’s just being funny.” Ilsa rolled her eyes and chuckled and Robin smiled at them.

“You guys are too cute,” Robin commented. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

“We neither,” Ilsa stroked her belly. “After so many years... it’s still hard to believe.”

“A part of me won’t believe it until I’m holding her safe and healthy.” Nick added. “You guys will be godparents, right?”

“Corm will be pleased, I’m sure,” Robin nodded.

“Nick was talking about you too, godmother,” Ilsa clarified exchanging an amused look with her husband.

“Me?” Robin looked surprised and flattered, and grinned. “I’ve never been someone’s godmother, it’ll be my honour!”

“Awesome, then we got it sorted. Oggy laughed when I told him we were baptising her but you know what? After all it has taken us this is practically a miracle, so we’re going to at least do that.” Nick joked.

“Don’t you want kiddos?” Ilsa asked.

“I don’t know,” Robin shrugged. “With Matthew it was always sort of a silent agreement. We always figured marriage, kids, nice house, nice schools. So I guess yeah, it’d be nice. But right now I’m not in a rush. Still only twenty-seven so...” she added with a side smile. “We’ll see what the giant wants if we’re still together in say, four or five years.”

“Well before Beth kids were an absolute no,” Nick commented. “After... maybe you have a chance.”

Robin looked at him, thoughtful. She had never thought of Strike and herself as parents, they had just had their first date, but somehow she imagined he would be such a nice dad. He’d be the overprotective giant the toddlers would hide behind of, the sweet, loving and tender father, but also the firm and serious when needed to be. He’d indulge the kids with hamburgers more often than not, and teach them about the streets of London, self defence, overprotecting their mother, and analysing a person’s history based on their appearance before they were even five. He’d seem like a scary ogre but would be practically unable to say no to the kids and she’d probably find them eating too much ice-cream, or find him letting them use him to brush his hair, experiment with wax bands to satisfy their curiosity, or paint his nails, and they’d do forts in the sitting room, he’d tell the best bed-time stories based on his adventures, his deep voice soothing them like it soothed Robin, and make them wooden swords and fight around the garden. Somehow the idea made her smile a little.

Back at Strike’s flat, he went straight to bed and Robin entertained herself working on her laptop, sitting on the bed next to him with the headboard, pillow in between, against his back. The room was small but the bed was super comfortable and Robin sometimes rested a hand on Strike’s hair absentmindedly playing with his curls as he nudged into her thigh in his sleep. She saw movement in the window and glared at a spider on the glass, breathing in relief when she noticed the spider was outside.

“You’re not coming inside, you bitch,” Robin murmured. Despite having been raised in the countryside -where spiders were sure bigger and uglier- she had always hated them above all else. She could stand practically any other living thing in the world and even like it, she had no problem dealing with things like horse’s excrements, but spiders absolutely freaked her out to the point of not even daring to touch something that touched them. Of course she had never told Strike, she just dealt with the problem while on the verge of a panic attack behind his back if there was ever one in their office, which, thanks to the humidity, was more than she’d like. Robin knew she was rather badass with the driving and self defence and her general curriculum, wasn’t about to say she could confront a serial killer and hit them without problem, but a spider gave her arrhythmias. 

In the meantime, she kept working on her favourite case ever; the woman who thought she was a stolen baby. The investigation had proven to be challenging and frustrating, since even though Robin had managed to find out her supposed birth records didn’t seem legit, that was practically all. Every other course of investigation she had followed had ended in a hole. Strike hadn’t wanted to chime in much, wanting to give Robin the solo experience and the incredible satisfaction that supposed resolving such a crime all alone, but even he recognized it was a rather odd, difficult case. Robin, however, loved the challenge. She was in her third hour of work when she noticed Strike seemed to be talking in his sleep. Robin set the laptop on the night stand and moved to lie next to him, caressing his cheek as she faced him. It took her a while to understand, but she finally realized he seemed in pain.

“It hurts...” he was murmuring, hoarse grumbling between his teeth. He looked distressed. “Please make it stop... it hurts...”

“Cormoran?” Robin whispered gently, thinking that he might be talking to her. But he was still immersed in his nightmares. Robin sighed and hugged him close, kissing his shoulder and, in a soft whisper, starting to sing the same lullaby her parents always sang her. “ _Goodnight to you, now close your eyes and go to sleep. Goodnight, sleep tight, sweet dreams, tonight, goodnight, I love... you..._ ” she kept singing the song softly, repeatedly, until she felt him relax against her. This was going to be a long ride.

 


	24. Zero tolerance

After a wonderful fourth date playing a racing competition (turns out they had automatic cars, that Strike could manage), Robin wanted to spend the next day working on her case. She knew there was a woman dying to know her origins and, while Strike worked on other cases they had, she drove her Land Rover to the small church by the only graveyard in which she had found the grave of a baby dead little after born (or already born dead) that looked like vanished from Earth. No family, no information, no records about any family with that surname around the area around the time of their birth. The fact that the name shown on the grave was simply ‘Baby McKerrington’ made Robin strongly suspicious since, which loving parent or compassionate director of an orphanage wouldn’t give the child at least a name? She remembered painfully how Strike’s daughter had had a full, elaborated name; Elizabeth Charlotte Strike Campbell. Three names. And Baby McKerrington didn’t even have one. Baby McKerrington was also the only one whose birth date was the same as Robin’s client.

She entered the small church and, after a long line of wooden benches, she saw an old priest.

“Good morning,” Robin saluted, approaching the man with a gentle smile. He looked up at her and smiled a little.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Don’t you know me?” Robin asked, to check if he had seen her on TV about Strike’s mission and her decoration. The old priest squinted at her, looked confused and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, I don’t recall you. Have we met before then?”

“Actually, I don’t think so, I just thought maybe we had,” Robin smiled. “My name is Robin McKerrington. My parents used to live around here when they were younger, they’ve just passed away recently... car crash.” She lied and judging by the priest’s expression of sadness, she lied good.

“I’m so sorry to hear. I’m priest Devon, Perhaps I did meet them, which year?”

“Oh, when they were children or teenagers, years ago. But my father was always very sad about his only sister. Before his own parents passed away, they had told him that they had a daughter, that was his big sister and died at birth. It always seemed to hurt them a lot. My father wasn’t very curious, so he didn’t investigate much, and now I was thinking maybe now that he’s gone I could find her for him. I mean, her grave. He always wanted to bring her flowers but you see, by the time his parents told him they were already old and had beginnings of Alzheimer so they no longer remembered if she was buried in this neighbourhood or in Bromley, where they lived for the rest and most of their lives.” Robin explained. The priest nodded in understanding. “So I came here and to my surprise, there is one Baby Kerrington buried her, same birth day and all. I was wondering if I found her, do you remember anything about the family of that baby?”

“Oh, ma’am, that was over fifty years ago,” the priest remembered. “I remember that one well, because it was the first baby burial I had ever witnessed, and also the weirdest. No family came, no one. I was only the altar boy here, you see? So young, easy to impress. But I don’t think it’s your aunt, ma’am. In fact, I highly doubt there was ever a baby in that coffin.” Robin’s heart jumped with excitement, but she managed to still look disappointed for her character, and confused.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Well, like I said, I was very young,” the man explained. “But I remember since I thought it was so odd no one came, I asked priest Kenneth, who passed away years ago now but was here then. Priest Kenneth told me that he thought the same, that he had taken the coffin in his arm during the procedure and it seemed to weight nothing but the coffin itself, seemed empty. But someone had apparently come and demanded to bury that coffin, we could never open it. They said Baby McKerrington must be buried and refused further information. We didn’t think of calling the police really, we figured anyone deserves a good rest.”

“Won’t you happen to know if anyone around the time was expecting a child in this area, right?” Robin asked, thinking fast. “I was thinking maybe I could locate their family, just to be sure they aren’t related to me.”

“No, I’m sorry. I was too young... but their parents must be dead now, most likely.”

“Right... well, thanks anyway. Have a good day.”

When she arrived to Strike’s flat at night for dinner, to which he had invited her as another date more -a way simpler one- or just to see her, she told him what she had found out and he nodded thoughtful at her story, drinking what seemed like his third big class of beer, as he sat on the table, his empty plate of steak in front of him. 

“Interesting,” Strike said, finally smiling satisfied at her. “You’ll get there any day now.”

“Do you think so?” asked Robin, her expression hopeful, leaving her very first glass of beer in the table, only half of it empty.

“I think you should always think so,” Strike laughed, and she rolled her eyes but smiled a little, nodding in agreement. “Come on beautiful it’s time to leave work aside and relax, we’ve got some pending Musketeers to watch.”

“I swear, if D’Artagnan pisses me off again I’m shooting him...” Robin murmured, following Strike to leave the plates in the dishwasher and back to the bedroom, where the laptop waited for them.

Strike woke up early in the morning feeling as if he had slept nothing, as he had for a good bunch of weeks now. It was only that in the rare occasions that slept came during a full in-interrupted night, it was restless sleep, tossing and turning without really enjoying a peaceful, relaxing rest. He went to the kitchen and, pouring himself a glass of beer, he debated whether he could drink himself to sleep. After quickly getting dressed -entertaining himself quite a lot by watching Robin sleep, made a cocoon with his sheets despite being almost July, only a bit of orange-like hair visible- he peeked into the fridge and realised it was quite empty, so he scribbled a note letting Robin know he’d gone to get some groceries and would come back soon, and left the apartment as silently as possible, to avoid waking his girlfriend up.

He turned left as he exited his building, crossed the road after a bit, and entered a small metallic door that marked one of the entries of the park in front of his building. Strike walked through a stoned path between the green, vivid grass, and after a bit of zigzag, he exited the park in the opposite side, following a long, crowded road forward named Lower Clapton and passing in front of the big St. John and Hackney big church in the opposite crosswalk. In a short walk, he had entered a Sainsbury’s store. The whole walk there he had been smoking a fag without being very conscious, too busy trying to stay awake.

He bought a couple plastic bags full of groceries and held one with each hand to balance himself, smoking another fag as he undid his steps to head back home. There was something comforting about having Robin around the house, putting some order in his life, and some warmth in his tired heart, and as he walked he realized it came as an easier physical effort when he thought of Robin.

When Strike got home he realized Robin was still asleep and it was still rather early. Strike didn’t feel like waking her up, looking so calm and relaxed, and decided leaving the house for a bit would make sure it was quiet for her. So he threw to the trash his previous note and scribbled another one saying he’d gone out and be back soon, and, lighting up another fag, he left his building again. This time he turned right and, as he reached the corner, he turned right again through an alley shared with a bicycles’ path that unnerved him, and he exited it passing between ‘The Hackney Vet’ and a ‘Local Supermarket’, where he turned left and soon he was at ‘The Windsor Castle’ pub, his own personal Windsor Castle. There was a Domino’s Pizza in the same street and he thanked heavens Robin was so damn good at finding his place for him. While he was there, he spoke on the phone with the very excited Charlotte, who had just bought an incredible apartment with the money from her divorce and was calling Strike to check some technicalities she didn’t know much about, while he was quite the handyman. Three beers and two fags later, he was back home, hearing noises of Robin working on her breakfast in the kitchen.

“Cormoran?” Robin’s voice echoed from the kitchen.

“Yes!” Strike closed the door after him and walked towards the bathroom, already feeling his leg complaining. “One second, need to use the loo.” After a quick pee, he remembered to wash his hands and brush his teeth thoroughly to not bother Robin with the smell of cigarettes. The only flaw of dating Robin had been related to the cigarettes; he could smoke his life away as long as she didn’t smell it and the room was ventilated, but she would not kiss him afterwards until her breath didn’t smell of smoke, which meant his dental hygiene had never been so on point, making that ‘flaw’ not that much of a flaw.

Then he went into the kitchen and chuckled seeing Robin barefoot, having breakfast on the table while watching the morning news. She had her hair up in a messy bum, no make-up on, and was only wearing her panties and a big t-shirt that belonged to Cormoran, and left uncovered a shoulder that Strike was dying to kiss.

“Good morning,” Robin smiled at him, her bright blue-gray eyes already fixed on her.

“Morning,” Strike smiled reaching her and kissing her marmalade-coated lips from her toasts, moaning in appreciation. Robin smiled against his lips and looked at him when he separated.

“Where have you been?” Robin asked with curiosity as Strike leaned to press kisses through her bare shoulder, making him giggle. “You’re silly.”

“I’m in love,” Strike admitted, making her blush, and let himself fall on a chair. “Just walking around, I love this neighbourhood more every passing day.”

“I’m glad,” Robin took a bit of her toast and while munching, observed the TV screen distractedly listening to the news. “Did you sleep well?”

“Uhm... sleep, I slept. Rested nothing though,” Robin moved her eyes to fix on him, which a slight frown in concern, but said nothing. “What about you?”

“Fully rested, although I missed your presence a bit,” she added raising her eyebrows.

“I’m going to head for the office, are you coming?” Strike asked. He was already daydreaming with his office, another fag and doing surveillance on ‘Rug guy’. Rug was the nickname of a man with an orange toupee that his wife had asked him to keep an eye on, since he seemed to be cheating with his female secretary, according to the wife. Strike was, however, more concerned about his male business partner, that seemed to him more like the one Rug guy was cheating with.

But Robin, however, had other plans. She had researched online for the doctors that took care of Baby McKerrington and find out to which family it belonged and whether or not they were her client’s biological family.

“No,” Robin shook her head finishing her toast. “I’m going home and getting changed and then off to Middlesex, stolen baby research.” Strike nodded, giving her a chaste kiss before getting up.

“Alright, have fun and lock the door after you!” Strike left the building and walked to the over-ground station a bit further than where he had gone shopping earlier. Strike and Robin had given each other a copy of the apartment’s key.

As he took a seat, noticing how with the prosthesis on people didn’t jump to offer him a seat like they did when he was on crutches, he felt the exhaustion of the days weight on him. The lack of rest was starting to make him a bit grumpier, the sexual frustration added, and he just felt like smoking and drinking his sorrows away. In his desperation, he had started taking weird rituals he saw online before going to sleep; reading, warm relaxing baths, relaxing music, exercising, putting some nice-smelling candle in the bedroom an hour before going to sleep, avoiding certain foods and drinks before bedtime... they had achieved for him to fall asleep in seconds, another thing was for it to actually be restful. Despite this, so far he had managed to keep his temper at bay from Robin, but he wasn’t sure how long that would last. He was literally close to crying from lack of rest, the bags under his eyes so gray and deep that he seemed ten years older. Or twenty.

Which is why he lost his patience really fast when some snobby dude came late in the morning, close to noon, after he had just arrived from doing surveillance, demanding explanations as to why he had only  _just_ arrived to the office. Apparently the man had been waiting for an hour, losing his  _precious_ time.

“...this is an absolute lack of respect, that’s how serious you’re about your job, Mr. Strike? Indecent! Inadmissible!” the man was saying, with his strong Richmond accent and his elegant suit, that at least cost what Strike made in two whole months. Strike observed him with an incredulous expression.

“If it’s so inadmissible sir, by all means, go,” Strike said tiredly, feeling a headache creeping into his head. The man had soon shown that he wasn’t willing to listen to Strike’s reasons for his delay, so at least Strike didn’t have to do that.

“Go? No, I’ve been waiting here for one hour! Now you’re going to attend me and you better do your best investigation or else...!”

“Or else what?!” Strike roared, standing up from his chair in all his size. But the man didn’t relent, looking defiant at him. He hated threats above all else. He would _not_ be forced _again_ into something. “You’ll put a bad comment in our website?! You’ll complain to your workmates?! Please, enlighten me!” he shouted. The man stood up, his face mere centimetres from Strike’s twisted nose.

“You have no idea who you’re talking with!”

“No, _you_ have no idea who you’re talking with!” Strike shouted over his voice. “But I will enlighten you; I’m _Sir_ Cormoran Strike, ex-Sergeant in the Royal Military Police, so you can begin by treating a soldier with respect!”

“Yeah, sure!” the man laughed in his face and Strike had had enough. He was going to lose it and do it fast, and he didn’t even care. He was too tried to control the mountains of repressed anger inside of him. Strike put his palms on his chest and pushed him backward with such strength the man lost balance and fell on his ass. “What the hell?! I’ll sue you for this!”

“Please do!” Strike shouted angrily, walking to him as he stood up and went quickly to the door. “For your further knowledge, I treat my clients like they treat me, I’m swimming in money and I don’t need _anything_ from you, you’re the one that needs me, so you will treat me with respect! And I can well choose to send you to hell and sue you for the way you’ve come raging into _my_ office and speaking to me, so if you’re going to sue be ready to have your ass kicked because I can pay an entire lawyers’ firm! Now, GET OUT!” The man looked scared as hell and ran out of the office. Mr. Crowdy, from the landing downstairs, came up after a while, when Strike had barely just punched the door close.

“What’s all that noise, Mr. Strike? Everything alright?”

“Yes, thank you!” Strike shouted, and angrily threw a cushion of the sofa against a wall, before sitting on it and cradling his face between his hands. He was so tired, and yet he had all this angry energy and sexual energy inside (the little touching he could stand was starting to just not be good enough), needing to get out. Strike was absolutely drained and at the same time, he fell defeated. He had never won that mission and survived.

Strike looked at his prosthesis, the constant reminder of the hell he had ‘survived’. But he was still there, trapped. He felt it every day. It was as if being around London was a dream and what was truly real was sitting there, handcuffed, seeing someone cut off his leg, the most excruciating physical pain he had ever known. At the end, it was that what he saw every time he closed his eyes. He had never left... or the experience had never left him.

As he relaxed, he dwelled on what he had just done. Strike knew he couldn’t afford to be sued, it would take an enormous weight on his business, people would stop coming. Strike had crossed the line in an inadmissible way and now he beat himself up internally for what he had just done. That damn mission had stolen him his leg, his mental health, his sanity, his good body, good health, his sleep, his life... and was about to steal his business. All without him having any control over things. What was the point of life now? If he would just always be trapped, handcuffed, seeing terrible things happen and being unable to do anything, powerless to danger, unable to protect himself, his business or anything around him. His heart may be beating, but Strike felt everything but alive. His life was stolen away the day he set a foot in Russia. And Strike felt defenceless, powerless to everything, and too drained emotionally and physically to even try do something to attempt some sort of fixing. Before he could control himself, he was crying. Rage, sadness, frustration, a feeling of being powerless filled his heart.

Strike observed the hand with which he had punched the door hurt a lot, despite the damage not being even enough to cause bruises. It seemed as if the leg being cut had freaked his brain out, driving him to the level in which he had zero tolerance for any kind of pain, making the small feel bigger.

 


	25. Losing your mind

As the days passed, Strike felt himself sinking. He wasn’t motivated, he didn’t feel like getting out of the bed, he didn’t even feel like trying to explain or trying to hide his suffering. He was too drained for any of it, to the point of exhaustion in which opening the mouth to speak was already too much of an effort. Depression caught him hard, and since he felt as if there was nothing he could do anyway, because no matter how hard he tried -if he even had the strength to try- bad things would happen to him, he didn’t even attempt to help himself. For what? His life was miserable anyway. His leg wasn’t going to grow again. His memories wouldn’t go away. His life wouldn’t change and would never be the way it used to. So why try anything, if it was for nothing?

“Come on, get off the bed. Come with me, we’ll go investigate the stolen together, like we did before!” Robin tried in vain after powerlessly watching him, all of the sudden, sink into bed for days in a row. She had never seen him so bad and now it had been over a week. At this rhythm, he’d miss Emily’s birth. Strike just snuggled up in bed, eyes closed, as he was so tired the eyes got all sensitive to light, and the ears, to sound, for which he grimaced at her louder voice. “Sorry,” Robin whispered. She frowned in concern, sitting on the verge of the bed. “Come with me?”

“I’m tired, Robin,” he slurred. “Please go...”

“Corm, we’ve got dinner tonight, here, remember? Nick and Ilsa, Savannah and Cassey, Mackenzie and Tom, Lucy and Greg.”

“Take ‘hem somewhere fancy, I’ll pay,” Strike grumbled.

“We agreed weeks ago they’d come here, so they could see your new flat, your new prosthesis, and so you were comfortable if you felt bad.”

“I feel bad. I want to stay in bed.” Robin rolled her eyes and sighed. As a psychologist, she understood. As a normal person who had just arrived from a crazy work schedule -since Strike refused to move, someone had to keep the business going- late already, knowing their friends must be almost there and expecting a dinner made, she was about to kill him. She would’ve helped him more using her psychology skills, but she had been so busy with making sure their agency didn’t crumble she couldn’t just split herself and she knew he needed for her to care for the agency and hoped that he would eventually accept professional help.

“Alright...” Robin sighed. “You’re right love, stay, I’ll deal with this. I should’ve cancelled if I had remembered earlier...” Robin leaned to kiss his forehead and tucked him in. She was honestly worried for him, and so was everyone, which was one of the reasons they had chosen the flat; to try and ambush him to get help, to show up for him, to care for him. Even the very, about to give birth, pregnant Ilsa.

Robin ran to the kitchen and made sure the chicken was roasting well in the oven and that the salad was all ready and the table, that could extend and become bigger, was extended and set. As the guests arrived, she attended them, trying to not make it so noticeable that the host was absent.

“He’s _still_ in bed?” Lucy asked full of concern as she accepted a cup of wine. Robin nodded. “Do we have to put him in a mental institution?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Strike appeared suddenly, dishevelled but there, with his prosthesis and all.

“Corm, finally,” Ilsa smiled at him from the table, too big to bother with getting up.

“Well I needed to use the bathroom and I’m hungry so I figured...” Strike shrugged, dragging his feet to Robin, to kiss her. “I’m sorry.” He apologized so much in the last few days Robin failed to know exactly for what, but she smiled a little and caressed his cheek.

“Just sit and eat some, okay?” Robin said gently. Strike nodded and went to sit.

They were half way through dinner -Strike barely intervening in any of the many conversations held, too busy trying to stay awake- when Robin remembered she had left the office’s mail unopened on the kitchen counter. She had been in such a hurry to leave that she had just taken it to the flat. Thinking that there might be something important -they sometimes had last minute case-related mail or taxes- she excused herself to walk the two steps to the kitchen counter and take a quick look, just to see if any envelope looked important. The only one that called her attention, was one from the tribunals, addressed to ‘Sir Cormoran B. Strike, Private Detective’.

“Cormoran?” Robin asked. He hummed in response. “Are you expecting mail from the tribunal? I don’t remember there was something to testify on...”

“What?” Strike grumbled, tiredly looked up. “Maybe I’ve been called to participate on a jury or something. Would you mind reading it for me? I can barely open my eyes...” Robin nodded and opened the letter. The others kept chatting normally.

Robin read the letter quickly and felt herself start getting absolutely furious as she finished the letter. It was a citation to declare in a hearing accused of having ‘attacked’ someone. There had to be a mistake. The date they gave was before Strike’s bed camping, but she still couldn’t imagine him just attacking someone and not mentioning it. There had to be more to the story. So she forced herself to relax and sat back in the table, handing Strike the letter.

“It’s a citation for you to declare in a hearing,” Robin explained. Ilsa looked at him and frowned. “You’re being accused of attacking some man. It is a mistake right? They confused you with someone else?” Strike frowned for a bit and then realisation dawned to him and he paled, looked up at Robin with genuine fear. Not for the tribunal, he could afford the best of lawyers, but for Robin’s reaction. Robin’s expression hardened. “Cormoran Blue Strike... what,” she said very slowly, “have you done?”

“I uhm...” Strike gulped. He felt awake all of the sudden. “There was a problem in the office some weeks ago and uh... this man, he came yelling at me because I had just arrived to the office and he had been waiting for an hour. One of those snobs, you know. I don’t know who he was, he had no appointment. He was very disrespectful, and you know how much those piss me off... and I wasn’t on a good mood, you know I haven’t been alright and uh... I had just been doing surveillance, if I had known we were to expect someone, I’d have arrived sooner...” Robin’s glare and hardened expression made him nervous like no one else. It was something that had started as they became official, when one day she had gotten angrier than he had ever imagined she could be, with someone in the office and earned a whole new level of respect from him.

“What did you do?” Robin asked again, not wanting excuses. Strike gulped.

“I pushed him,” Strike said. Robin’s eyes widened. “I swear it wasn’t hard. I swear! I put my hands gently on his chest, and pushed him back softly, okay? It was self defence, he was this close to my face shouting at me like a mad man, I couldn’t stand it anymore!” Strike hurried to defend himself. “He just tripped with himself and fell on his ass! I swear that’s all that happened Robin, I didn’t punch him or anything. And I didn’t attack him. He barged into the office and followed me into the inner office without permission, shouting and threatening me, it was assault!”

“Did he really threaten?” Savannah asked, trying to understand something, coming from a man she knew well for his discipline.

“Yeah!” Strike nodded. “He said...” but he couldn’t even remember. “Look, I’m too exhausted to remember... something about that I’d better do my best job with his case, that he didn’t mention, or else... and he didn’t say more. I think he also threatened with suing.”

“Cormoran, fuck, do you realize the mess this is?” Robin tried her best to control her own temper, and not explode at him adding the general frustration of having had to take care of literally everything over the past few days, even cleaning his flat sometimes.

“What was I supposed to do? It’s not my fault he’s got the balance of a pen!” Strike shrugged. “Robin, I only defended myself. I didn’t feel at ease, okay? I was alone and...”

“And?” Robin glared at him. “This is not the first time we’ve got some asshole come shouting, but we know better than this because then, no matter how justified our actions are, we are the ones that have our ass kicked! Even if you win this, which will most likely happen because he had no right to come barging and treat you like that, he can ruin our reputation, yours specifically. What will happen when he uses his money and power to convince the media you attacked him? Sell his version?”

“That they may give more decoration to the so called by the news, British hero? A decorated soldier?” Strike shrugged.

“Yeah, right!” Robin sighed in exasperation. “This could shut us down and you know it as well as me. It’s one thing to bring to the office someone who assaults you with a knife and arrest her, but even she didn’t receive a punch. To public’s eyes, you lost your shit for no reason. Precisely because of your reputation, who do you think is not going to laugh at the idea that you didn’t feel safe, or that you felt threatened? Aside from us I mean.” Strike pinched the top of his nose bridge and sighed. He should’ve stayed in bed. His head was killing him.

“Shit guys...” Ilsa had in the meantime read the paper. “This guy has money. And a good pair of balls actually.”

“Yeah, that’s not good for any business... Client’s always right, supposedly.” Cassey, Savannah’s wife, commented. Strike breathed deeply.

“Look,” Strike said calmly. “It will take me five minutes to convince any jury I did nothing wrong. Once my innocence’s been proven, there’s nothing he can sell, okay? And if he tries it, then I give Culpepper an interview, get society on our side again. Come on Robin, I lost it one moment, alright, I recognize it shouldn’t have happened, it was a big mistake. But it’s going to be alright. We recovered from being sent legs, didn’t we?” Robin glared coldly at him.

“You know what truly pisses me off Cormoran?” Robin said sternly. Strike looked down, hating her tone of disappointment. As if he needed to hate himself further. “This happened because you’re not alright. You said it yourself. And a bunch of us have been trying in vain for weeks and months even to convince you to see an specialist and get treatment for your obvious PTSD and you’ve refused. If you had had the right treatment, you would’ve slept way better those days and been more able to get a grip, you might’ve not even felt threatened by him. Instead, you decided to be bold and now look what happened. A man could’ve gotten seriously hurt, you know? If he hadn’t left that moment, if he had kept shouting - we both know he would’ve ended up with a broken nose at least, dealing with a version of you completely out of control. And then? Good luck not going to prison for it. Can I at least trust you won’t hit me one day if you lose your shit again?” Strike glared at her, crestfallen. He hated every word she said and what he hated the most was that he understood. “You’re not just being reckless, you’re being irresponsible and letting yourself become a dangerous, mentally unstable person.” Robin finished up, coldly. She shook her head and focused again on her dinner, not even cold anymore.

Strike, feeling pretty much stabbed in the insides, lost his hunger fully and got up to go back to his bedroom.

“Where’re you going?” Lucy asked, grabbing his hand softly. “Please stay.”

“I’d like to go to sleep Luce,” Strike grumbled softly, his voice croaky.

“I’m driving you to the doctor tomorrow,” Robin said looking at him who turned to look at her. “We’re getting this treated once and for all.”

“No,” Strike shook his hand. “I hate hospitals, I hate psychologists, psychiatrists, therapists and all its variants, and I already researched their treatments and they are stupid, useless things.”

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to go,” Robin said stern, her light eyes fixed on him in all seriousness. “I’m not negotiating Corm. Either you go nicely or I will go myself and as your health and welfare attorney, ask for you to be declared mentally unfit, therefore unable to make your own life decisions, and legally I’ll become the one in charge of you. And then I’ll push for you to be in a mental hospital and get treated. They will come, drug you and take you away, with or without your consent.” Strike’s eyes widened at this, and so did Lucy’s. Robin didn’t look like she was kidding or fooling around. Her eyes were glassy and emotional but serious. “I’m giving you a chance to go willingly, see a doctor, and receive a treatment at home. So please don’t be a fool.”

“You can’t do that,” Strike murmured.

“She can,” Ilsa argued. “Legally, she can. And as your business partner is actually even easier, she can just say she thinks you’re a danger to your clients and they’ll do a mental evaluation and declare you unfit, because you obviously are.” Ilsa didn’t like any of this, but she knew it was the best for their friend. They had tried to help for weeks and being nice hadn’t worked. “She’d have my support as a lawyer if she tried, Corm.”

“Corm, sweetie...” Mackenzie proceeded cautious. “We didn’t just come for dinner. We came because Robin didn’t know what else to do with you. We’re worried about you. And if things had to be done the ugly way, as long as it means you get better, then we’ll do it, you know? Even if you hate us, because we care for you and you deserve to be treated and recover.”

“And,” Savannah added. “We can’t exactly lie if we’re asked to declare about you. We’ll have to say you haven’t left your bed in two weeks for other than peeing. We’ll have to say if it wasn’t because Robin came and feed you and went and took care of the agency, you’d have no business anymore, and wouldn’t have eaten in weeks.”

“You wouldn’t let them right?” Strike asked Lucy. “You’re my sister. You can’t betray your own brother...” Lucy seemed on the verge of tears, and shrugged.

“I like this as much as you or any of us, Stick,” Lucy said teary-eyed. “But if this is what it takes for you to feel better, then... I’ll support it.”

Strike cursed himself. His country betrayed him, his friends betrayed him, his sister betrayed him, his girlfriend betrayed him. Why did he ever think it would be a good idea to sign the lasting powers of attorney over to Robin? He had never felt so alone. He felt about to faint. He felt overwhelmed with emotions but about all, rage consumed him. Strike couldn’t give credit to what his eyes were seeing. He pointed a long index finger to Robin with the outmost rage in his eyes.

“We are done. I don’t want to see you ever again in my life, do you hear me?” Robin looked shocked and her eyes immediately filled with tears. But he was enraged. He was furious. He was indignant. He felt his own heart pounding and breaking and directed all the rage he was feeling towards the world, towards those people and mostly Robin. “How do you dare threaten me? I was your boyfriend! Your partner! What happened to having each other’s backs? You betray me! You all betray me! The people I trusted the most, stabbing me in the back!” Strike shouted angrily. The vein in his neck swollen and his fists clenched. “I’m changing my power of attorney tomorrow, and I better never see you again! I WILL QUIT MY JOB IF I HAVE TO, TO GET RID OF YOU!” he made such an aggressive advance towards Robin that Nick stood up between them. Robin had also stood up, looking genuinely afraid, her eyes full of tears and her lip quivering. She had never feared Strike. He had always represented safety. “NOW GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, ALL OF YOU! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!” he practically ripped the oak necklace from his neck and threw it to Robin so strongly it hit her forehead and she hissed in pain.

“CHILL!” Savannah roared, jumping off her seat and grabbing Strike’s arm, pulling him away from Nick, Robin and poor Ilsa, who was too pregnant for that level of stress. Savannah had had enough, seeing the way the people in the table were suddenly genuinely afraid and hurting. “You have no idea what you’re saying, you asshole! You’re too drunk!” she hissed at him. “Apologize, right now!”

“You’re not my boss anymore,” Strike growled between clenched teeth. “You all leave before I call the police.”

“Cormoran, my friend,” Savannah tried softly, trying to reach to caress his cheek, but he pushed her back. “Corm, come on! Please, stop and think. Don’t let your demons get the best of you, this isn’t you...”

“You have no idea who I am!” Strike shouted, and walked quickly to the door, leaving the flat.

 

 


	26. Paranoia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals heavily with mental and psychological issues, which is something for which I did a ton of investigation so I hope it's accurate but I'm sorry if it isn't. Mental health has always been an intriguing topic for me, and I love everything that's psychology, it was actually my second choice of career, so... enjoy!

Strike slept at a hotel that night, and the next couple days. He decided as long as no one knew where he was, they couldn’t find him. Strike felt mental, but he wasn’t conscious of it. He wasn’t conscious of reality much anymore. To Strike, there was doubt about whether the reality was him being in Russia and the dream his current experience or the other way around, and he had started hearing things in his mind over the last few, very drunken hours, so he had started to seriously think nothing was real. He failed to remember how many weeks he hadn’t rested properly in a row, he was paranoid about the idea of anyone coming and taking him somewhere, tying him again, hurting him... and he felt alone. With his heart pounding in his chest, he braved up to come to his flat one day, in the middle of the night. To his relief, it was empty, but he knew Robin had keys still. Strike was hurting so much his own heart clenched painfully in his chest. He needed to run, before  _they_ found him. He packed a couple suitcases and a bag with all his most important things, money and his documentation, and got into a night bus to Liverpool. Strike thought he could take the ferry to the Isle of Man, hell, even to Ireland, and disappear, no one would ever find him.

When he finally made it to Liverpool, he discovered he had to wait a full day for the ferry, since the others were full already, so Strike decided to stay in a little hotel. There, he drank his sorrows away and smoke a lot. Sitting in the bed, Strike felt dead inside. He would never feel safe. They would always find him, and tie him, and hurt him... and he didn’t want that pain anymore. Strike’s heart would never rest at ease. Strike bought then a big bottle of Scottish’s Pincer Vodka, that was 88.8% alcohol, along with a pack of over-the-counter sleeping pills. Strike was desperate to go to sleep, so tired he felt about to faint any second. Back in his room, he used his pocket-knife to cut all the pills until they were mostly dust and poured them inside the vodka, closing it and agitating the bottle for a couple minutes. Then, he opened it, and starting to drink, decided to not stop until it was empty, no matter how he felt. Then it all went black.

“Cormoran?” Strike heard a distant, female voice in the darkness. “Cormoran?” he started feeling his body, heavy against something soft. His eyelids felt like bricks and he had a pounding headache. He groaned. “That’s it Cormoran, very good. Wake up, it’s okay.” The calming, soft voice he did not know led for his eyes to open, and blink at the intense light.

Finally, he distinguished himself on what seemed like a mixture between a normal bed and a hospital twin bed, his body free of cables, IVs, patches... there were no machines either. He almost wanted to smile at the way he, even with the headache, felt actually rested for the first time in weeks. Then his eyes moved to his right and saw a woman in her late forties, with dark hair already getting gray, and glasses, a kind and sympathetic facial expression, sitting on the verge of his bed looking at him with a welcoming smile. Robin and Lucy stood behind, with more cautious expressions full of emotions.

“Hello, Cormoran. I’m Doctor Catherine Everett, I specialize in mental illness,” Strike frowned slightly, looking at her. “And we’re now at Nightingale Hospital in London, a private institution that is also specialized in treating mental and emotional issues.” Strike knew them and made a gesture to get up.

“Cormoran,” Robin stopped him with a soft voice. “It’s okay if you want to go, I’ll drive you back to your flat, but not without you listening to her first. Please.” Strike looked at her, and nodded. Why did she look so... broken? Last he remembered they had been enjoying a marathon of Friends at her flat. Snuggled, kissing...

“Alright,” Strike noticed his voice was croaked and he cleared it. “Sorry, what is going on?” he asked Doctor Everett.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Strike frowned.

“Well, I was just doing a Friends’ marathon with Robin, at her place. Romantic date, you know.”

“Cormoran...” Robin bit her lip nervously. “That was over three weeks ago.”

“No,” Strike frowned. “Don’t be silly, love, it was just yesterday, I’m sure...”

“Today is July 5th, Cormoran,” the Doctor assured him. Lucy nodded in confirmation and Strike frowned further.

“That cannot be...”

“It’s normal that you don’t remember,” Doctor Everett assured him calmly, with a comforting expression. He sat up in bed, confused. “For what I’ve heard and for what the tests made at the general hospital showed, you’ve been consuming great amounts of alcohol for a few weeks, over-the-counter sleeping pills and... smoking, right? That, united with your mental illness, affects the memory. But it all come back as you recover, don’t worry. Cormoran, you’ve been suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Anxiety, Depression and possibly Psychosis associated to your PTSD, not to mention sleeping disorders associated also to PTSD. It kind of goes in a pack and one thing feeds the other. And if I’m correct, and I have over twenty years of experience, this has been cooking in your brain like cancer for around four months, give or take, without receiving any treatment.” Strike breathed slowly, looking at his hands in his lap. He had flashes of arguing with Robin, having some row... feeling exhausted in bed, refusing to see someone... “Now, five days ago Robin told me you’ve had what looked like a mental break-down and had run away from your flat in Hackney, London. Two days ago a hotel worker finds you almost dead in your room in Liverpool, and in the hospital they notice you’ve drank alcohol to kill a horse, mixed up with sleeping pills. One hour more and you’d be dead. So you’re here.” Strike nodded slowly. As he heard it, he started having flashes of all of it and pinched his sinus.

“Doctor Everett helped me when...” Robin bit her lip. “When I was rapped. She’s the best one I know. She truly helped. And she can help you too, if you let her.”

“No one’s going to keep you here by force, Cormoran. I can’t force my help on you,” Doctor Everett cleared. “You can stay here for as long as you wish. But I’ve never left a patient unsatisfied, I wouldn’t like to start with you. If you choose to stay until you’re stable enough to be cleared by me to leave, you’ll find this is a lot like a hotel. You have your room, TV, free wifi. There’s a gym, a restaurant, a dining room, even a kitchen. You can walk freely around the place. You can get dressed too,” Strike noticed then he was in his pyjamas. “But I’ll give you a medication to help you, I’ll teach you ways of coping with your feelings and emotions, I’ll give you tools to get through PTSD, you’ll get to come to reunions if you want with people with similar problems, talk with them, make some friends. And you’ll get to sleep and rest, because I won’t allow any other thing.”

“I don’t want to be locked, tied, or drugged all the time...” Strike rushed to say.

“Are you tied, Cormoran?” Doctor Everett asked. Strike shook his head. “Now walk to the door, tell me if it’s locked,” Strike nodded and took his prosthesis, that the doctor neared for him, put it on and walked to the door, noticing he was barefoot and in familiar pyjamas. He easily opened the door, seeing a narrow corridor like at hotels, with many doors, each with a different number. He observed the doors didn’t have a lock, only a card pass, which meant only the people with a card could come in, and he could always come out.

“I’m not,” Strike said, turning to look at the doctor, who nodded.

“Try the windows then,” Strike walked to the two big windows in the house, that led to the street, and both were easy to open and lacked a lock. He left one open for comfort. “I will have to give you medicines though, but I don’t believe in injections, I believe in words. If you freak out, no one will go and inject you something like in the movies, to put you to sleep. If you’ve slept this long is simply because you needed it, not because of meds. If you freak out, I will talk to you. And when I give you medicines I will keep them to a minimum, and also to minimum doses, and you will always know exactly what they do. We can also change them if they give any secondary effects that trouble you. And if you ever want to leave, your bags are in the closet, you just take them and the door is downstairs. No one will go running to get you. You can also just walk around the street sometimes.”

Strike nodded slowly. He didn’t want to trust her, but he knew if Robin trusted her so much and thought so highly of her, he could too. He was also starting to remember the pain he had put Robin through, and he regretted it immensely.

“How long do you think I’ll have to stay until you clear me out?” Strike asked in a soft, low voice.

“It depends on your progress, but the average is one to two weeks,” the doctor explained. “I like to release patients as soon as I don’t think they’re a danger to themselves and continue treatment by having them come for a couple hours a couple days a week or so, therefore, you could go even sooner. But right now, I’m pretty sure if you leave you’ll kill yourself or accidentally harm yourself, so I would be cautious. Not to mention I can’t trust you’re not a danger to others right now. We’ll have to do a mental evaluation first.”

Strike looked at Robin. He knew he had hurt her badly, he could see it in her body, and even Lucy looked at him a little like she had looked at those men their mother brought home during their childhood together. If the little flashes Strike had of memories as the minutes passed by where anything to go by, he knew he had majorly fucked up, and he suddenly felt embarrassed and ashamed of himself to the chore. He had reached the point of desperation and last measures, and if it came down to a mental hospital or losing  _everything_ , including his own life and sanity, then the decision has clear.

“Fine,” Strike nodded. “I will stay for as long as it’s necessary. I’d just want to have off one day when my best friend’s daughter Emily is born. I’m her godfather and I’d like to be there, if that’s alright.” He looked at the doctor, submissive to her care, stripped off his reputation, his strength, and everything he had. Strike wasn’t going to screw that up. He would never self-pity again.

Doctor Everett smiled satisfied and nodded, walking to Strike and handing him a card. In the card there was his name, his birth date, his room number and a bar code that Strike imagined opened his door.

“I’ll give you three some privacy and fetch you in an hour to show you the place around, okay?” she asked him. Strike liked that, being asked, being given the option to say no if he wanted to. But he nodded and managed a smile polite smile back, which was enough for her to leave.

Now Strike was suddenly nervous, slipping the card inside his pocket as he looked at his sister and Robin, who then cleared her throat and made a gesture to leave.

“I’ll give you some pr...” Robin started to excuse herself, but Strike interrupted her.

“I’d like for you to stay too, I’ll just steal a moment of your time if it’s okay,” The two women then looked at each other and back at Strike, standing in their place. Strike fidgeted nervously with his hands and decided to be honest. “Look uh... I’ll be sincere with you, I barely remember anything. Things are starting to come back to mind, but in pieces and, if they’re really what happened then... then I’m ashamed, embarrassed and sorry, for my behaviour. The way I’ve treated you and the others is inexcusable and I don’t expect for it all to be forgiven and forgotten just like that, but I will make it up to you, I swear. I’ve been the worst excuse of a brother, a friend, a partner or a... boyfriend... and I’m really, utterly sorry, but I’m going to make sure the man who leaves this place is someone you deserve, and not the prick of a boy who came in.” Strike looked at them full of regret and remorse, waiting for the shouting, but it never came. Instead, Lucy’s arms wrapped tightly around him and he hugged her back enthusiastically, finding that he actually needed a hug.

“You’re my brother Stick, and you’re just behaving as the ill man you are, it’s all good. It’s forgiven.” Lucy assured him softly, pulling apart just to kiss his cheek, and smiled proudly at him. “Anything I can do, just ask.” Strike shook his head.

“I’ll be alright here. Just give the boys big hugs from me,” Lucy nodded with a satisfied smile and moved aside. Strike looked at Robin, who seemed to be immersed in some internal debate, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes fixed on some lost point of the bed. Strike looked at her hands and realized with a punch in the stomach that there was no ring. There was also no oak necklace, despite Strike remembering, painfully, throwing it to her face, literally.

“I realize I’ve been particularly jerk with you, Robin. You’ve been doing so much for me, taking care of everything on your own and I’ve been a terrible pe...” Robin interrupted him and looked up at him, ice cold back in his eyes, not a hint of concern.

“I’ll take care of the agency while you’re gone, and I’ve handed Lucy your flat keys so they can look after it, and the power of attorney over you. When you recover, I’ll present a formal resignation and hand you back my copy of the office’s keys. I want to wrap up my cases first,” Strike’s eyes widened and he lost his breath for a moment. Robin nodded at his silent need for confirmation, with a serious expression. “I’m leaving London.” She added, as if that covered all of her other reasons.

“Robin... you love being a detective. Is who you are...” Strike started. “And I didn’t mean anything I said that night, okay? Of course I want you in my life, I lov...”

“Please Cormoran,” Robin sighed, raising her shoulders for a moment. “Just shut up, okay?” Strike nodded, crestfallen, but he could feel his eyes tearing up and he looked down. Robin walked to him and extended a hand, that he shook, throwing away the sudden idea of kissing the back of her hand as soon as it came to mind. “Get better and try to be at least a shadow of the man I loved.” She added on a whisper, and he bit the insides of his cheeks. When Robin was almost at the door, she turned around one last time to look at him, a more conciliatory expression suddenly in her face. “Doctor Everett is world-wide famous. She’s truly good at what she does so please, please Comoran, just don’t waster her time and work _with_ her. Do your best. Don’t disappoint me again. I’ll wait for you downstairs, Lucy.” There was a mountain’s big difference between the tone she used for him and the friendly, sisterly soft voice she used for Lucy, full of warmth and affection. Then Robin left the room and Lucy looked at Strike apologetically.

“She’s been really, really hurt, Stick,” Strike nodded letting a breath out as he worked to get a grip of himself. “When you left... she had a panic attack, the strongest I’ve ever seen, Savannah sat with her and they did breathing exercises until she seemed better, only to start crying and shouting it was all her fault, that she had fucked up and now we’d never see you again. She handed me over the powers of attorney the next morning,” Strike looked at her, his eyes wide with anger at himself. “That night she stayed at our place, I didn’t want to leave her alone. Then she’s been drowning herself in work, eating less...” now that she mentioned it, Robin did look paler and thinner, but Strike had thought it was a product of his mind. “She gave me mom’s ring. And when we were in the hospital after police called us and told us you almost killed yourself, she threw all the blame on herself. I can tell she had been trying to find you, just to keep an eye on you, and she didn’t manage it. She begged me then to put you here, she said if Doctor Everett can’t help then no one can. And the next day she told us she was going to help her father with the horses. I think she needs to get out of here to be okay, go back to the fresh air and vast green fields, you know?” Strike nodded slowly. “Ever since you left for your mission, she has held the biggest responsibility over you agency, you know? She’s the reason it didn’t crumble. She’s been working non-stop, even weekends, and then you were back and shitty, and she was worried about you too, and it’s just too much stress and anxiety altogether.”

“She needs a break, I know.” Strike shrugged. “Keep an eye on her for me, will you?”

“I will,” Lucy caressed his stubble-covered cheek. “You look after yourself. Give her time, Corm.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and thanks for the comments and support!
> 
> If you like to, you can follow me in my tumblr https://thetrunkofthenighttraveler.tumblr.com/ where I basically post about Cormoran Strike and its actors, quotes, bits of Harry Potter and a tiny bit of Krashlyn (two USWNT players that are lesbian TOGETHER).
> 
> Hugs to you all!


	27. What if she kills me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who gives me spoilers on Lethal White will receive a distance hug and special mentions. Love me some spoilers.

During the week and a half Strike was in Nightingale Hospital, he received many visitors and stuck to his routines of gym-pool-therapy religiously. He attended group meetings and forced himself to talk, and forced himself to listen too, remembering every second he did something to be a better man was getting just a bit closer to Robin, who had never visited him, not once. 

Lucy also gave him their mother’s ring, that he hung from a cord from his neck and kept under his clothes. As he left the hospital feeling like a new man indeed, a week and a half of sleeping properly even when he had nightmares, learning to control them and feeling more relaxed than ever, he got into Lucy’s car, the morning early and bright.

“Come on, hurry up,” Lucy said as they put the bags in the trunk. “Ilsa went into labour a few hours ago, in the middle of the night.”

“What?” Strike chuckled. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“At three in the morning?” Lucy laughed. “They didn’t even call _me_. Robin was with her though, I heard.”

With the perspective of seeing Robin again, the road to the hospital seemed too long, wanting to be there as soon as possible, even if he had always hated hospitals and had just come out from one, fitter, thinner and looking healthier than he had in a long time, his stubble trimmed, his curls short, the bags under his eyes only slightly visible.

“Ilsa Herbert,” Lucy called at the front desk as they arrived the hospital. “She was in labour...”

“Oh yeah, the baby was born. Room 235,” the woman smiled at them and they hurried for the lift. They were knocking at the door shortly after.

“Come in!” Nick’s cheery happy voice called. Strike saluted some of his family, that he remembered, and Ilsa’s -more enthusiastically- and hurried to hug his friends and meet little Emily. Robin wasn’t in the room, but Emily was milk-drunk on her beaming mother’s arms in the bed.

“She’s beautiful, just like her mother,” Strike grinned with a hand on Ilsa’s shoulder, squeezing softly. Little Emily was wrapped up in a pink blanket, her tiny hair covered in dark fuzzy hair, and her tiny gray-ish dark eyes eyed him sleepy, her tongue pocking her own lips sometimes, babbling all over. Ilsa nodded, full of happiness, and Nick grinned from ear to ear at his daughter, sitting on the verge of the bed and stroking her face lovingly. The baby was healthy and strong, nothing like Elizabeth had been. Strike wondered for a moment if two year old Elizabeth would’ve behaved like Emily’s cousin. “Didn’t the godmother come?” Strike whispered to Ilsa discreetly a bit later.

“She was here all night, Nick called her when I went into labour,” Ilsa explained. “Then she was here when Emily was born. Brought some toys,” she added, pointing at a big teddy bear on one chair and a few other toys that sat by it. “But she left... about half an hour before you came. She didn’t want to miss the train.”

“The train?” Strike frowned. “Where?”

“Masham, of course,” Ilsa shrugged. “Don’t follow her, Corm,” she added with warning eyes. “She needs to be away. She’s not okay, she needs this. Please, just give her space and time.”

A couple hours later, after having held Emily for at least an entire hour, his eyes fixed on her with wonder, Strike left the hospital to go back to the office. It was empty and Strike found Robin’s keys inside the mailbox. There was a note on Robin’s desk that he took with trembling hands:

‘ _Mr. Strike,_

_The keys are in the mailbox. There are no open cases, so wait for possible clients._

_I hired a lawyer and paid them with money from the business, and they already told the tribunals you acted moved by mental illness and weren’t in your right mind when events happened, so the charges have been dropped._

_I also went to the bank and put the business’ account just in your name, and in your drawer you’ll find the papers to give your business back to you being the only owner, I signed them, you just have to sign them and deliver them. I’ve left a folder on your desk with possible secretaries I thought you could hire._

_Thank you for the good memories. Goodbye._

_R. V. Ellacott._

_P.D.: I need you to leave your copy of my flat’s keys inside my mailbox. I’ll ask someone to go fetch them for me in the next few days.’_

Strike felt something in his insides drop to the floor and he willed himself through the doctor’s tools to remain calm and composed and not swim in a pool of self-blame, guilt, sadness and anger. He folded the letter, put it in an inside pocket of his jacket, and walked inside his office to wait for anyone willing to hire him. While he did so, he opened the folder Robin said to have left him and saw many different profiles. Men, women, black, white, foreign, native... all had curriculums even more fascinating than Robin’s had been when she arrived, all looked promising and very capable of being excellent secretaries and assistants, even. So he took the fold, threw it to the toilet and since he was there, he decided to do a piss before he went back to sit. Seeing how the pages came undone in the water, he threw a prayer to heavens so it wouldn’t get stuck, and pulled the chain, breathing out in relief when she saw it hadn’t gotten stuck.

Back on his desk, Strike opened his computer and Googled ‘Masham, Yorkshire’. He spent some time using the Street View tool to walk around its streets, memorizing them, becoming familiar with them, wishing he was there with all of his being. He looked at the places he imagined Robin must’ve frequented, the restaurants at which she had probably eaten, the green landscapes where he imagined she had played with her brothers during her youth. After a few hours doing so, Strike finally decided to grab his mobile phone, and send Robin an audio message.

“Hello, Ms. Ellacott,” he said softly, trying to sound happier than he felt or, at least, normal. Strike would much rather call her Robin, but the letter she had left made him think that maybe she did not wish for him to call her like that anymore, and he didn’t want to piss her off any further. “I’m at the office, I just saw your note. I’m sorry you had to run for the train and we didn’t have time for a proper farewell, but well... I only wanted to let you know that I truly appreciate you taking the time and effort to find me some candidates to help out here, but I do not plan on hiring anyone else, not even another detective. I can settle with lesser clients, it’ll be alright. But I know as incredibly capable as those candidates seemed, no one could ever even attempt to replace you, not even the part of your services that aren’t of a detective. If you’re not here, Ms. Ellacott, I’d much rather work alone than hiring another partner, secretary, assistant, detective or whatsoever. You alone did far more jobs than I paid you for, in the end,” Strike remembered vividly how many times she had hurt thinking of being substituted, Matthew substituting her with Sarah, him substituting her with his flings, the propositions of hiring detectives, or other secretaries... she had never wanted to go. Robin left because she had to, and Strike wanted to make sure she could rest and relax and never for once think she’d be substituted. And he wasn’t lying either - he could not stand the idea of having anyone else working at the office, except for her. “That said, I also wanted to thank you for everything,” Strike breathed deeply to avoid getting emotional, and tried to think of guts, horse poo and vomit to distract himself. “You’ve been the best partner I could’ve ever dreamed of, in all the ways someone can be a partner. Your contributions to this business and your value to it and to me is immensurable, and you are already greatly missed. Nothing will be the same without you, Ms. Ellacott. You saved this business, you saved me, and if it wasn’t for you none of us would be standing so... well, thank you. I hope you took a good pay-check before you left, because is the least you deserve, alright? If not, let me know and I’ll send you one. Lastly, only remains to say that uhm...” he sighed, and shrugged even if she couldn’t see him. “I understand why you have to go and I promise you I’ll give you all the space and time you need. I won’t do further attempts to contact you, but I hope you know there is nothing I would want more than to see you and talk to you. I regret _everything_ I did to you, with all of me, and if I could go back and do things differently... I would have, and I would’ve made sure you were treated like the most precious thing in the world, because that’s what you deserve...” his voice got hoarse and he cleared it. “I was... I’m glad you’re not tolerating anyone to treat you like I did, even if that someone is me. You don’t deserve what I did to you... I’m really sorry for the hell I put you through, Ms. Ellacott. I have no words to describe how much I care for you, even if sometimes it doesn’t seem like it. Best of luck in your future endeavours, okay? Enjoy Masham and... well, have a great time. I hope your life becomes all you need and want. I’m so sorry this is the way things have gone. Goodbye.” He saw how the message sent and, a few minutes later, he saw how the message appeared received and listened to and then held his breath as he saw Robin seemed to be replying... but suddenly, all he saw was that his contact was blocked. He could no longer see her profile pic. She was done with him.

**. . .**

A few days later, Strike was at Nick and Ilsa’s playing with little Emily, both lying on the coloured puzzle carpet they had put together in the sitting room as she practiced her head movements and tasted her toys. Her big gray eyes, that were becoming browner, like Nick’s, often looked at him with curiosity.

“She thinks you’re a giant,” Ilsa laughed sitting on the carpet and agitating loud toys in front of Emily, making her reach her tiny fists to them. Strike smiled looking adoringly at the baby. He had been naive enough to think he’d be indifferent to her, but it surprised him how much he cared for that little thing. It wasn’t just his best friends’ very waited for offspring, but it was also a little girl, like his Beth, and somehow he felt he could acquire a glimpse of the experience that was stolen from him.

“Loving that toy, Ems? Is it tasty?” he asked her, caressing her little cheek with a big calloused thumb. “Look! Mommy’s showing you something super cool!” Ilsa smiled at him, adoring that newly discovered side of her best friend she hadn’t seen with his own nephews as much. She suspected it had something to do with Beth, but she didn’t comment.

“I spoke with Robin yesterday on the phone,” Ilsa commented casually. Strike sighed and tried to ignore Ilsa by focusing his attention on Emily’s little feet, cradling them with one enormous hand. “She sounded better. Healthier. But at the same time, I don’t think she’s getting much of a holiday. Her uncle’s very sick apparently.” Strike’s eyes shot to her.

“Uncle Charlie?” Ilsa nodded. Strike looked grim. He was like a father to Robin, he was the one with the horses and the cars, they were very close. “What’s up with him?”

“He’s got Leukaemia, got diagnosed a month ago. She didn’t want me to tell you,” Ilsa sighed and shrugged apologetically. “He’s really unwell, getting worse surprisingly fast. Robin’s there mostly to help out, take care of the horses and everything.” Strike nodded slowly, and sighed.

“Robin lied, Ilsa. She never took a train, she drove her Land Rover to Masham, I saw it wasn’t parked anywhere. That means she wanted for me to think she had had to leave when Emily was born, when in reality, she most likely decided to leave at the precise moment to avoid seeing me,” Strike said. He had suspected it since the moment Lucy had told her, but had decided to let Robin believe he gulped it. He couldn’t blame her if she didn’t want to see him. “If she’s taking so many efforts to avoid seeing me, I can’t go even if things are so shitty there, even if she’s suffering, no matter how hard she’s suffering. If she wanted me there, she’d tell me and instead all she’s saying is ‘don’t tell Cormoran’.”

“Mr. Strike,” Ilsa corrected him.

“What?”

“Mr. Strike. That’s how she calls you now,” Ilsa explained with certain sadness. Cormoran sighed, shaking his head, and gave Emily the horse toy she was reaching out to, even if Emily couldn’t quite grab it yet. “You need to fix this, you know?”

“How?” Strike shrugged, looking at her friend. Emily started fussing and Ilsa, without thinking twice, took her in her arms, opened her blouse, and put a nipple into Emily’s mouth. Strike raised his eyebrows surprised at her comfort, not asking him to leave or something, but said nothing. “She wants nothing with me, Ilsa.”

“Maybe you’re looking at it wrong,” Nick suggested, coming into the room with a tiny bottle of beer for Strike and another for himself and losing track of thought for a moment, as he smiled stupidly at Emily, before remembering he was supposed to finish a sentence and looking back at Strike, flopping on the sofa. “Look, analyse it. What is she feeling?” Strike looked at him questioningly and Nick sighed, giving up on him. “She’s obviously worried for you, guilty because she left, sad and hurt because you broke up with her and mistreated her, exhausted because she hasn’t stopped in months, lonely because the one who was supposed to be there for her, her own boyfriend, completely neglected her as a professional partner, friend, and boyfriend, angry and frustrated because her life’s crumbling down and she doesn’t des...”

“Okay, alright, we’ve established I’ve fucked up, just tell me how to fix it,” Strike stopped him.

“You know, for someone who gets girls so easily and reads people so well, you’re impressively dense when it comes to girlfriend’s feelings,” Nick commented. Strike rolled his eyes impatiently. “All right! Well obviously, you have to go get her. Not go and try have her back as anything yours, your friend, your partner, your girlfriend, etc. That would be selfish, disregard her feelings because you just want things for _you_ because of how _you_ feel. What you have to do has to be unrelated to your feelings. You have to go because you know she’s suffering and you know she’s always gone to you when she was at her worst, and she trusts you the most, and she’s going to need someone. You go to stop disregarding her feelings, to stop her hurt and her sadness, to make sure she smiles and feels better. You go because this isn’t her fault and she shouldn’t be carrying the can.” Strike looked from him to Ilsa and she nodded.

“But what if she kills me?” Strike asked.

“Haven’t you just listened to him?” Ilsa rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what happens to you, it’s about her! If she kills you, you take it like the big man you are, but you don’t let someone suffer alone in her misery because she lost her best friend and her boyfriend due to you! You left her alone, so you go and end her loneliness, no matter the cost. You put her feelings before what she might do to you.” Strike suddenly felt very stupid. Of course, it was damn obvious, he had to go there.

“But what about giving her time and space?” Strike asked then. “What about respecting her desires?” Ilsa and Nick looked at each other and nodded.

“Look, that’s also right...” Nick sighed. “I guess it’s like when we got pissed at our parents as children. At first, we made the whole tantrum and then run away and didn’t want to know a word about them, but if they never came back, it felt as if they didn’t give a shit. You’d still tell them to go away because one has some pride and ego, but the fact that someone was willing to stand your rejection because they deserve it and work their way back to you regardless of how much shit you may get.”

“I just have to know what’s the right time to go.” Strike commented. Nick and Ilsa nodded in approval. Then Strike’s mobile rang and he sat up on the carpet, bringing it to his ear. “Cormoran Strike. Martin? Oh...” Strike frowned and sighed. “Shit... I’m sorry Martin... Okay. Alright, I’ll take care of that. Bye, take care.” He hung up and looked at Nick and Ilsa. “Uncle died.” He said, grim. Ilsa looked at Nick.

“If you go now you’ll be back by dinner,” Ilsa said softly. “I’ll take care of this one.”

“Okay,” Nick smiled and looked at Strike. “Have you got any funeral suits?”

 


	28. How are we gonna do this

Nick dropped Strike off at Masham almost five hours later, close to tea time, and drove back to London, leaving Strike standing with a backpack where, along with other clothes, was his Italian suit, with a black tie to go along. The warmth of July was less evident so up north and Strike, in his usual work suit, felt as if maybe he should’ve brought a jumper. He opened his mobile and followed the indications Martin had texted him, also asking some neighbours, walking between the houses that to him were already familiar thanks to Google.

Strike walked for a while and finally reached a light brown-gray stone house with a very low stone wall separating its beautiful front garden from the street and a bright blue door. There was a huge ivy covering most of the front of the house, and the garden was full with floral bushes, giving it a welcoming look. The house had two floors and looked pretty and big, extending towards the back. The house was a bit isolated, being in the border of the small town, but nice enough.

He nervously walked to the blue door and pressed the bell button. Not long after, the door opened and a tall redheaded man that looked to be in his mid twenties appeared, sad but smiling at the sight.

“Cormoran, really nice to see you man,” he murmured, and shook his hand and Strike nodded with a little smile.

“Martin, who is it sweetheart?” Linda Ellacott came by and smiled at Cormoran before wrapping him in a tight hug that caught him by surprise. “Thank God you’re here. We’re all in the sitting room, come in. Is that your bag?”

“Yeah, I...”

“Martin, please take his backpack upstairs, he can stay in Stephen’s old room,” Strike murmured a thanks to Martin handing him his backpack and, feeling about to throw up from nervousness about saying the girl he hadn’t seen in over two weeks and a half. Strike followed Linda into the house as she spoke fast. “Stephen and Julie came, they live in York, he’s only four years younger than you. Jon’s here too, he’s a bit broader than Martin, and there’s my husband, his sister Alice with her husband Cormac and their kids, Anne and Henry, a few friends too... ah, there she is.” They came into a large sitting room and Strike spotted Robin in a millisecond, murmuring something to a woman that looked about her age, with a thinner face and blonder hair. Robin looked paler than Strike remembered her, had deep bags under her eyes, and sad teary eyes, yet she was still enough to take Strike’s breath away.

Ignoring the looks towards him, he walked straight to the two women.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Strike said simply. The two women turned to look at him and Robin’s eyes widened.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Robin hissed.

“Stand by you,” Strike said matter-of-factly, resisting the urge to hug her. Robin looked confused and he looked at the other woman, offering a hand. “Excuse me, I’m Cormoran,” the woman shook his hand. “Would you mind if I borrow her for a moment?”

“Absolutely not,” the woman smiled and left them alone. Strike looked back at Robin, who seemed to be having a short-circuit.

“Look, you’re absolutely right. I should’ve been there. I shouldn’t have left you alone. You always said I was your only friend, the only person you had, I was your person and it’s thanks to me that you can’t have that in me anymore. I can’t fix the past, but I can show up when you need your person and try be that person again... You should have someone to cheer you up, to comfort you, to hug you, to distract you, to pull you to the end of the tunnel, to have your back, all those things you’ve always done for me, and I’m not about to ignore you again when _that_ is _my_ duty. It’s _my_ thing to do. _I_ should be the one showing up for _you_. So I will be. I’m not asking for you to forgive me and forget all I’ve done, I’m not asking for you to have me as a friend or a boyfriend again,” Strike cleared out quickly. “At any time you want, I’ll go back to London and if you want me gone, you won’t hear from me. But I’m not going without trying my hardest to have your back, you like it or not, because you’re far too good for this world to be a mess all on your own just because I fucked up. Hit me if you want, yell, whatever you need, I’ll take it. I’m here for you and I won’t run away again.” Robin looked at him for a moment, perplexed, and pushed him back softly, making him step back once. Strike boldly gave two steps forward, until he was almost nose to nose with her, and she looked at him, pissed.

“Jerk,” Robin hissed.

“Add fat asshole,” Strike suggested with a comical tone. She looked stupefied. “Even better,” Strike side smiled slowly. “Add soft-banana.” Robin looked confused at him, forgetting her anger for a second.

“Soft-banana?” Strike tried not to laugh and looked down very briefly. Robin followed his second-long glance and understood, slapping his chest. “That’s a terrible thing to talk about at a funeral!”

“Right...” Strike nodded, thoughtful. He shrugged. “Remember that time a few months ago you went to grab a cup from my window at the office to throw it away and I didn’t let you?”

“You said that wasn’t my job...” Robin murmured, confused for the change of conversation.

“Yeah well that wasn’t a lie but actually that cup was full of my own urine,” Strike blurted out. Robin looked shocked, seeing in his eyes that he wasn’t joking.

“You did not...” Strike nodded, starting to smile. Robin was trying very hard not to laugh, but a shadow of a smile was creeping its way in.

“I was too tired to crutch to the bathroom, and I really needed to do it, couldn’t wait that long...” Robin looked disgusted, but smiled.

“Oh God that’s disgusting!” Robin made a puking gesture and Strike laughed. Robin looked at him with defiant eyes, pressing her lips together and pursing them exaggeratedly to hide a desire to laugh.

“Oh come on Miss Seriousness, you love it. You were the one to invent ‘Dancing tooth’s nickname. There’s the smile I want to see...”

“You’re a fucking jerk, have no decency coming to the saddest occasion to talk about men with bad teeth and peeing in glasses...” Robin murmured looking aside with a smile, blushing, her arms crossed across her chest. Strike chuckled, poking her armpits and her belly trying to break her façade and make her arms uncross and get a good laugh. “Stop it, Cormoran, stop...” they started fighting to make the other laugh, pinching each other, until Strike trapped her between his arms, as they were both laughing, and hugged her closely.

Then Robin started crying and hid her face against his neck, holding onto him strongly and crying heavily. Strike’s big hand cupped the back of her head and a big arm wrapped around her, nuzzling into her hair and hugging her close.

“I’ve got you,” Strike whispered, pressing his lips against her head. “I’ve got your back, no matter what.”

**. . .**

Strike and Robin walked for a long time across the countryside, talking about Charles ‘Charlie’, Robin’s now dead uncle, Emily, work, and little more. They mostly enjoyed silent times, one beside the other, avoiding the difficult topics like themselves. After dinner, Strike found himself unable to sleep and decided to go smoke a fag in the back garden. When he got out, however, he found Robin sitting on a bench there, looking up at the stars with tears in her eyes. Without saying anything, Strike flopped next to her and put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. Robin looked at him for a moment before deciding to use his shoulder as a pillow.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Robin said with a trembling voice. Strike too stared at the sky, full of more stars than he had ever seen in London.

“Sucks,” Strike sighed, stroking her hair up and down. “But you know... he lives in you somehow...”

“I didn’t think you believed in those things,” Robin whispered.

“I don’t know, Robin. I see it in myself,” Strike commented, the fresh air hitting them. “The way my hair is dark as my mother’s, my eyes the same colour, the way I like the same music she liked, or sometimes, according to Lucy, say the same snarky comments. Or the way I play with Emily thinking of her more as a daughter than as a goddaughter...” Robin looked up at him and he locked eyes with her. “You have your uncle’s nose, his passion to go after your dreams even if they don’t make you rich, his love for horses and cars, his warrior soul. So I think he’s pretty alive in you. Not to mention as long as there’s someone to think fondly of us and remember our adventures, like you will do with your children about him... we never really leave this world, not completely.” Robin looked at him for a long time, surprised, and then nodded, snuggling onto him.

“Thank you for being here,” she whispered then.

“Thank you for arriving into my office.”

After the funeral the next day, Robin wanted to go horse riding, so Strike walked her to Charlie’s property, that was now managed by Robin’s father, and adventured to trying to ride a horse with a leg prosthesis, which proved difficult but once he was sitting, it was actually pretty fine. He had done a lot of horse-riding in the army and found himself having fun racing with Robin across the immense countryside, by the Ure River.

They finally stopped to rest at some benches near the river, where there was a fountain good for them all to drink. Robin finally spoke:

“So how have you been?” Strike looked at her. She was still wearing her beautiful black dress, with black, thick high heel boots, and it was hard to believe she had just been riding a horse.

“I’ve been great,” Strike answered finally. “You were right, Doctor Everett is pretty damn good. See her a couple hours per week now, I sleep pretty good, I don’t drink or smoke as much, and I barely have flashbacks anymore. The only flaw to these days has been knowing you weren’t so good.” Robin looked towards the river and nodded. “Martin called me yesterday morning so I’d come, he actually caught me talking with Ilsa and Nick about when was the right time to pay you a visit, so I decided the call was destiny’s way of saying now.”

“So Emily’s good?” Robin asked then.

“You know she is, you’ve been in touch with Ilsa,” he smirked at her, showing he wasn’t recriminating her or anything. “Just like you never came here by train.” Robin looked at him defiantly but he smiled softly, reaching a hand to slowly rub her back. “I wish you could’ve enjoyed some peace and had fun here, instead of things having been so rough. You deserve a vacation.”

“Yeah well life doesn’t really give vacations, does it?” Robin murmured.

“Actually, it’s close to August now, why don’t you come with me to St. Mawes for a few days? Have some fun, disconnect...” he suggested, shrugging. Robin frowned looking at him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea...” Robin said tentatively, and he rolled his eyes. She just saw that as something too couple like, even if they didn’t share a room.

“Jesus Christ Robin, don’t come with me then but go there, is a super relaxing place, stay at a motel if you don’t want to stay with my family. Or go with Luce, she’s going there in a couple weeks. Go, relax, have a true holiday at the southern beach.” Strike attempted to convince her. It was so frustrating when things they’d usually do without problems now they couldn’t because they were exes. That’s what Strike had feared when they begun.

“I will think about it,” the redhead finally nodded and crossed her legs, covered with thin black tights. “Thanks.”

“And come back to London with me, go back to your job.” Strike added on a whim. Robin looked at him with a frown, scandalized.

“I will not!” Robin argued. Strike looked sternly at her. “My uncle’s dead, someone needs to take care of his business and my family is going to need me here. No one is as passionate as my uncle was for that except for me, no one knows better than me, in my whole family, how to care for the horses and all. Besides,” she added, her eyes daring back to the river. “I don’t want to work with you anymore. The job hasn’t been as fun and lovely as it used to be, even when Laing.”

Robin’s words were like a double slap to Strike and he frowned, refraining from starting to smoke and just repeating his doctor’s advice like a mantra in his head. It wasn’t his fault his brain got fucked up, he didn’t ask for mental illness, he didn’t  _want_ to have caused so much pain to his loved ones and Robin was in her perfect right to be hurt by his behaviour.

“Fine,” Strike said then. “In that case, I’ll gift you the business. Take it, I don’t want it.” Strike hadn’t really thought about it and immediately thought to himself, _will the money from the army be enough for me to just retire?_ In the meantime, Robin stared at him as if he had just mentioned there were three ghosts sitting next to them talking about the weather and horse poo.

“Are you mad?” Robin asked with a high-pitched voice. His question was one of a mental man in her honest opinion.

“Look, you adore that job, is who you are. It wasn’t me who helped you see who you truly are and embrace it and see Matthew’s true colours and fight for something better, it was that job. The job that makes you feel like the badass super intelligent warrior we all know you are,” Strike said simply. “The job means the world to you and I hate to be the reason you can’t have it anymore, so go and have it. I’ll find something else. Hell, if you don’t want to be in my same city I will even find another city, I don’t care. What I care for is to see you be happy doing what you love, not what people may want you to do. And for your information, your family is perfectly capable of taking care of that business of your uncle or finding someone who can.”

Robin stared at him for a long time, frowning slightly like trying to read his brain through his eyes, concentrated, and then shook her head slowly.

“I’m not going to do that, and you don’t get a fucking thing.” She murmured. Strike raised his eyebrows, surprised to hear her curse.

“Then explain it to me.” Robin shook her head slowly, indignant.

“You... You think... And I...!” she couldn’t even speak from frustration, and just huffed, shaking her head. “This job wasn’t just awesome for itself, Cormoran!” she hissed, exasperated at his blindness. “When you left I found out that yeah, I loved my job and it was great but without _you_ it wasn’t half as exciting anymore. It was exhausting, lonely, so hard and certainly not fun anymore, probably because of the added fact of doing alone the work of two. So when you weren’t fine to work anymore, the job stopped being so great to me because it’s not the same without you. That’s why it got ruined for me.” Robin was calmer now, as if she had taken a weight off her chest. Strike turned to look at her and breathed out.

“Then come back _with me_.”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?!” Robin huffed. “No, seriously Robin! You love the job, I want you there, then come and do it, what’s the matter?”

“The matter is that I’m trying to forget you,” Robin blurted out, her blue eyes filled with things Strike couldn’t quite distinguish, and his eyes widened looking at her, speechless. “I want us to be friends... that can’t happen if I’m working with you at a work where we’re together every day for over ten hours, don’t you understand? If I went back to work with you... I’ll never be able to move on, romantically speaking, and still have you in my life.”

“Then maybe you should be my girlfriend again,” Strike murmured. Robin sighed looking away from him and pinching the top of her face. “Robin, listen to me,” Strike put a hand on her thigh softly and Robin looked at him with tearful eyes. He could feel his own heart beating way too fast. “I know I’ve caused you more pain than to anyone else, but you have to understand how much I regret it. That I wasn’t in my right mind, I’m not putting excuses but you know better than most people that I was _ill_ , I didn’t mean all I did and what I did doesn’t define me, it’s not who I am, it’s just a symptom of my illness, one that I’m getting treated for every week, and working through every second. I’m better now. I can be the man you deserve. I just need a chance to prove it... I’m so in love with you, Robin,” Strike sighed, staring at her. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t just see her go. “Just give me a chance and you’ll see I’m okay now, and I won’t disappoint you. I won’t fail you once more. Let me redeem myself, Robin, please, because we can’t change what happened, but we can decide what happens next. And we were happy together, weren’t we? Before things got worst... we were a happy couple in love. We can have all of that back, and let it be a hundred times better now that I’m better every day instead of worse. What do you say?”

“I know all of that Corm, I know...” Robin looked at him in despair. “I get it, believe me I do. Believe me there’s nothing I want more than to be with you again, go back to London and have it all be great...”

“Then why are we losing time being apart when we could be happy, together?” Strike grumbled, searching her eyes with his own.

“Because the fact that I understand all of this, and I get it and I love you,” Robin recognised, making him smile a little. “It doesn’t change the fact that I can’t help being afraid of how you might get, Corm. That night, I was afraid of you for the first time in my life. And I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to hear you raise your voice, even if it’s just a little bit, again, without being afraid. I can’t help the fact that every time I look at you I go back to that night with you shouting, and hitting my face with my own necklace...” Strike observed that she still wasn’t wearing the necklace. Robin brushed her eyes with a quivering lip, and Strike nodded.

“You can’t control involuntary reactions to my presence thanks to the asshole I’ve been.” Robin’s breathe trembled and she got up, stirring her limbs. “Then come with me to visit Doctor Everett, Robin. Let’s do this together.” Strike looked urgently at her. She turned around, smiled sadly at him, and shook his head. “But how are we going to be friends again if you feel like that about me and aren’t willing to come deal with it? Not romantic partners, but friends even...”

“Corm, sweetie, look...” Robin sat again and took his hand. “I don’t want to hurt you, okay? But I’m going to stay here because I need to look after myself and think of myself. Right now, to me, London represents a failed marriage, and a bunch of shitty memories about work and you. I know one day I’ll be back and it’ll all be alright, because London also represents so much happiness, love, fun, success and excellent, invaluable memories. I left samba behind too, so there’s also that. So one day soon, I’m hoping to come back. But I feel I need a break right now, have time to myself, sort my feelings out about you. Here, in my hometown, with my family, doing the one other thing I love the most,” Strike sighed, crestfallen. He understood her, but at the same time, it felt like being kicked in the liver. “I miss you too, you know? I love having you here...” Robin shrugged. “I just know I need to be away and alone for a bit, sort myself out. And then I’d like to be your friend more than nothing else. Romance is... is secondary. I can live without you as my boyfriend, but I need my best friend, you know? And I promise you I’m going to fight to have that back. So just let me go for a while and let us learn to stop being in love with each other because Corm, we have to move on. See other people, devote to our jobs and our lives... and if we’re truly meant to be, we will be, sooner or later.”

 


	29. Words that burn

During the whole summer, the office in Denmark Street reminded closed, with a big lettering that said “ON HOLIDAY. BACK ON OCTOBER 1 ST  8:00 - 16:30 MON-SAT” and then under it, in smaller format “Previous appointment required. Thanks”. Strike had left to spend the rest of the summer in St. Mawes, drinking beer with his oldest friends, spending time with his aunt and uncle, fishing with the latter and doing gardening with the first, going on solo car rides through Cornwall... Strike even decided to take September too and spend that month with Savannah and her wife in Scilly, since he hadn’t done a real holiday in years. He didn’t want to think of Robin, whom she hadn’t seen in two and a half months nor heard of, and yet, when he appeared at his office on October 1 st , at 8AM, opened the door, and saw no one inside, Robin was the first thing back in his mind to punch his guts.

He was eating a sandwich for lunch with the most bored expression, staring at the ceiling of his office, when his phone beeped with Robin’s tone and he jumped from his seat, cleaning his hands quickly with a paper and taking the mobile with trembling hands.

‘ **I heard you just came back from the holidays! My very first samba show is tonight. All of our friends and your sister are coming. I’d love to see you ;)’**

Strike raised his eyebrows, feeling his heart skip a beat. Robin was in London? She was dancing again? He had never seen her dance. He typed fast.

‘ **You do know you’re talking with Cormoran Strike, right?’**

‘ **Yeah? Why?’**

‘ **Just to make sure. It’d be my pleasure to go and see you. I did just arrive to London... break a leg ;)’**

‘ **Oh God let’s hope not :D’**

Strike smiled foolishly at his phone and, despite it technically not being the time to go, he took his coat and flew back home, as fast as his prosthesis allowed, to get ready, calling Robin on the way to hear her voice and figure where it was and the time. Apparently there was some samba festival going on and her academy would be performing under the stars in Hyde Park. He put on a suit without a tie, texted their friends to agree on going together and, at 5, they were in the park, that was incredibly crowded and filled with music. Strike saw a huge scenario, although barely a step high, that had been put on the grass. Behind it, there were some huge marquees where Strike supposed that the artists’ got ready, entering the stage through a passage hidden with canvas cloths that led to it.

“This is so exciting!” Savannah clapped her hands happily. “I saw samba once. Sexiest thing in the world, didn’t know Robin did it.” Strike had googled samba when Robin told him she was going to do it, back when they dated, and he knew it was sexy, but now worried about his package, that had been reacting lately, and about his jealousy, now that they were no longer together. He gulped silently.

“D’you guys know if we’ll see her before...?” Strike asked as they walked to get the best spots in front of the scenario, where people had started to sit on the grass.

“No, I was just texting her before coming and she said it was all pretty frenetic, changing and getting everything read. She’ll see us after, we’re going to get drunk!” Lucy said excitedly. Strike could tell whose parents had gotten nannies far too happily in the group.

They waited for a bit and finally, they announced the academy. The first dance would be a big group dance with everyone involved, and as sensual, Latina music, started sounding through the huge loudspeakers, the dancers started appearing, looking stunning and sexy, the men all like models, with elegant pants and colourful plain shirts, many of them opened showing sculptural bodies -some weren’t even bothering to wear something- and the girls all with lots of cleavage, some with tights, and all with colourful short skirts or dresses, and high heels. When Robin appeared, the girls of his group whistled and cheered, and Strike’s breath caught in his throat, his hands quickly flying over his package just in case. Robin was breathtakingly sexy. Her hair was half up, red curls falling perfectly well, her make-up accentuating her eyes, cheekbones, and lips, wearing a short dress (that for some performances became just a corset, her legs entirely visible) tight in the torso, with lots of cleavage and no sleeves, and her legs long, with black, almost transparent tights and high heels.

“Sweet mother of God...” Strike murmured. His sister, Ilsa and Nick laughed at him and kept cheering. Robin looked confident and like she owned the place, moving with precision and an amount of sensuality Strike didn’t think was possible without breaking something. How could anyone healthy have such movement of hips, legs, feet? She had grace and beauty, as if she had been doing that her whole life. At one point their eyes locked at Robin winked with a small smile reserved for him, and he smiled as dumbly as he was feeling, his face warm like fire.

“She’s fucking owning the place,” Ilsa commented at one point, while Robin was dancing with two men at once, perfectly coordinated and making Strike’s brain just die, his eyes glued to her like hypnotised.

“Yeah...” Strike whispered hoarsely. Nick and Tom looked at him and laughed out loud.

“We lost him,” Tom told Nick with a chuckle.

Strike wondered if he could ever dance like that. He was a good dancer, just of waltz, ballads... when younger, he could’ve perfectly danced samba. His mother thought all men should know how to take their women to dance and always taught him, and he was so good, but now he lacked a leg and had the rigid body of a soldier and a closet combined. Strike wondered if Robin had ever wished to dance with him like she was dancing now with men younger and sexier than Strike, all of them two-legged for sure.

“Have you realized how happy she looks?” Mackenzie commented during another of Robin’s performances, where she was being spun in the air a lot, doing a bit of acrobatics to more modern music, in which Strike recognized, in the upbeat bits, parts of the end of ‘Over you’ by Ingrid Michaelson, and showing a kind of elasticity and elegance that left Strike seriously worried for his sanity. “Look at her... is like she’s in cloud nine. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy.”

Strike saw it too. Robin was in cloud nine. Carefree, happy, badass, glowing, purely a queen up there, having the time of her life. She was floating, shinning, owning the scenario, outstanding over everyone else, grinning sincerely and sometimes even giggling. Robin was her own body’s owner, her life’s owner, her own boss. And she was a warrior.

“I have,” Strike said before he could control himself, the more upbeat, drumming last minute of ‘Over you’ acquiring more relevance. “That’s the smile she got when I paid her a surveillance course. The laugh when we’re in the car going to resolve some murder and talking about other stuff. The passion every time there’s a good investigation. And she shines, as she shined when I appeared at her wedding, when we kissed for the first time, when I took her on our first date and we danced in a boat to jazz bands...” he had fucked that up. That’s why she had needed to go. Now, she could be the Xena Princess she was born to be.

When the show ended, he applauded the most. They had all stood up by then, clapping with the music during many performances, but now he grinned big at her, his eyes fixed on her. Robin was grinning so big as they bowed to their public, and they locked eyes again. Robin’s smile seemed to get bigger in her eyes, and he nodded, mouthing ‘damn good job’, which made her laugh.

They had to wait in the park for Robin for a little bit, everyone chatting so excitedly about how cool it had been and their favourite parts. Strike, however, felt high. He shut up the entire time, with a fool smile, his eyes fixed on the marquees, until Robin finally came out, a black dress short to her knees, almost transparent, black tights, ankle boots, her long beige coat, a small purse, her make-up flawless and her hair loose, laughing as she walked next to one of the man she had danced with, a Latino with tanned skin -more than how Strike’s had tanned in St. Mawes and Italy during the holidays- dark hair short and sexy, Musketeer’s goatee, dark brown eyes and a dark suit without tie. There was also a female dancer laughing and walking along with them, and the three of them talked excitedly until Robin spotted him and ran to him.

“Cormoran B. Strike, look at you all tanned!” Robin laughed before hugging him. Strike’s breath caught as his nostrils filled with her scent, numbing his senses.

“You were outstanding,” he finally managed when he found his voice. Robin smiled blushing as everyone complimented her too and she greeted the others, thanking everyone for everything.

“Guys, this is my friend Ali and this is Julio,” Robin also introduced the group and Strike didn’t miss the moment in which she introduced him as a ‘friend’. Not an ex-boyfriend or anything. Well, at least he was a friend, apparently.

As they walked to a pub, all getting alone and laughing and talking too loudly, like a group of teenagers, Strike observed filled of jealousy how Robin kept her arm around Julio’s waist, as he kept an arm around her back, and they seemed to smile at each other so much, their eyes shining at each other.

“You failed to mention she was dating again,” Strike grumbled by Ilsa’s ear as they reached the pub. He didn’t even want to be there anymore. Strike had daydreamed excitedly, like a teenager, about meeting Robin again, spending the night laughing with their friends, dancing, and then maybe going to bed together after a tearful, movie-like moment of forgiveness and shouting to the world how hard they loved each other. Now he couldn’t help but smile rigidly and feel repeatedly punched in the stomach.

“I didn’t know it was him,” Ilsa murmured. “She just told me she was seeing someone, fooling around, like... a month ago, I don’t know. It didn’t seem serious, I thought it was just a fling of a few days.” Strike rolled his eyes, seeing how Julio took advantage of a moment dancing with Robin in the pub to kiss her, and she didn’t look surprised at all, grabbing a fistful of his hair as they kissed hidden by the multitude, but not so much for a detective to miss it. Strike felt like he had lost his breath for the worst reasons. Julio was the perfect Argentinean Robin deserved, a gentleman, always offering her a chair, a glass of anything, attentive to her needs, listening to anything she said with the outmost attention, making her laugh loudly... Two months and a half. That’s how much Robin had needed to forget him.

Strike saw how Robin pushed Julio back softly, blushing heavily. Strike read her lips and was almost certain she said ‘not in public, please’, and Julio, a fucking gentleman, nodded, seemed to apologize and kissed her hand. Strike didn’t see another kiss for the rest of the night. Had Robin not wanted for him to see her kissing someone else?

“To badass dancers!” they toasted. Strike listened trying to seem happy and pleased as Julio bragged about Robin for about twenty minutes, telling everyone how she was the star of the academy, how she danced like a pro, how she moved so elegantly and was the pride of the academy. Apparently he had been dancing since he was little, and his parents emigrated to London when he was a teenager, so he had been there for quite a few years now.

“If you need to go...” Ilsa whispered to Strike sensing Strike was about to break his glass of beer on Julio’s head.

“And give him the satisfaction? No. You know what bothers me the most?” Strike looked at Ilsa, smiling happily as if they were talking about Emily, and thinking of the cute baby to make it more believable. “I’m here sulking for her for over three months, missing her like crazy, because I’m _in love_. And she, who claimed to be too, has been screwing some dude for a month. You know how many times Robin and I had actual full intercourse? Once. Then it had to be oral because of my fucking traumas,” Strike grumbled. Ilsa sighed squeezing his arms, but smiling, following his cover. “She claimed to love me, Ilsa...”

“I’m sure she is in love... look, she’s just fooling around okay? Screwing some dude, you said it...”

“Come on, you’re seeing the same I...”

“Oggy,” Ilsa stopped him. “Don’t overthink. You’re doing great. She’s moving on. Just hope that you’re her happy ever after and, no matter how many guys she screws, you’ll be the one to grow old with her.”

Strike’s eyes fixed on Ali. The gorgeous black woman had been flirting with him the entire night. Robin wanted to play? He knew that game.

“Corm, no,” Lucy intervened as if reading his mind. “You’re a gentleman, you’re more worth...”

“I,” Strike whispered. “Am just going to please a girl clearly looking for a one-night stand. I am going to move on too, and if in the way she realizes she’s losing her time not being with me, then great.”

As the group stopped dancing and finally went to sit on stools around a high table, and Ali came to him, smiling and stroking his ass softly over the pants, almost unnoticeably, Strike saw his opportunity. He made Ali laugh with a stupid joke, and then leaned to kiss her mid though. Like he imagined, Ali started kissing him passionately, which he returned with more passion, putting his hands on her hips and letting her hand squeeze his ass. When they pulled apart, Strike saw Robin looked at them like if he had hit her. The second their eyes met, Robin looked aside quickly directing her attention to Julio.

“Well, Julio and I are going to head home now,” Robin said finally at one in the morning, as the party started to die, an arm around Julio’s hips and a huge smile. “I had a great time, thanks for coming guys.”

“You were amazing, thanks for inviting us,” Strike commented. Robin forced a smile towards him and Strike felt himself getting pissed. She had been the one kissing in his face, did she seriously think he hadn’t seen her? His was a one-night stand, three months and a half after their break-up, three months after she told him a firm no to getting back together. She had been screwing Julio for a month for sure. Why was her doing better than his? She shouldn’t be rude at him now. “Actually, I’m tired too... Ali, what if I walk you home?” Ali accepted eagerly and after everyone said their farewells, the group divided.

That night was hard fucking, letting his frustrations out on Ali, who seemed to absolutely love it. And in the morning, Strike went home, showered, and was back at work as if nothing had happened. The surprise came at ten in the morning, when Robin showed unexpected, a small smile in her face and a hickey visible in her clavicle. She had put a ton of makeup to cover it, but now the unusual amount of makeup there was the proof.

“Hi,” Robin said knocking on the inner office and peeking. Strike, who had been reviewing some files on his desk for his first case of the month, looked up and smiled softly at her.

“Hey, bellissima ballerina!” Strike chuckled. Robin nodded and chuckled a little.

“Gotcha, because you were in Italy right?” Strike nodded, and Robin rolled her eyes.

“So what’s up?” Strike said, deciding to put aside the resentment he saved for her.

“I want my job back. As your partner,” Robin said slowly. Strike raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. Robin walked forward and put her curriculum on the desk, pulling it out of a big purse. “I finished my degree during the summer. I got a deal with my university and I just had to do a few exams, since I left barely a couple months before the end of my last year.” Strike looked impressed and amazed and she blushed.

“Congrats! So... give me a moment to drag your desk into the inner office again then, since you’re not a secretary...” he went to stand up but Robin stopped him with a hand.

“I actually always preferred that room. I don’t mind doing a bit of secretary greeting... there’s more natural light there and I have nice memories.” Robin smiled vaguely and Strike nodded.

“Great then. I was just wrapping up the only case we have so...” Strike shrugged. “Play in the computer until someone arrives?” he joked. Robin snorted a laugh and nodded.

An hour later, bored, Strike flopped on the sofa in front of Robin’s desk. The redhead, who was entertained on the computer, looked at him briefly and then continued with her thing, her chin on her hand, no trace of last night’s dolling up.

“Does Julio make you happy?” Strike asked finally. Robin’s typing stopped and her blue-gray eyes looked at him over the screen.

“Yes,” she answered sincerely. Strike’s eyes dropped and he nodded. “Is him going to be a problem here?” Robin asked then, her hand motioning between the two of them. Strike shook his head vigorously, his rebellious curls getting even more messed up.

“Absolutely not, I’m happy for you,” his voice sounded as sincere as he could make it. “And I’m thrilled to see you back here, dancing and everything. Still living in Hackney?”

“Never sold the place,” Robin curved her lips into a small smile.

Strike could almost touch the tension between them. Now they were sober -well, he wasn’t going to get more sober than that- and bored waiting for clients, they got to focus on their shattered romance and friendship.

“I miss you, Robin,” he blurted out, gulping the knot in his throat as he stood up. Robin looked up at him with her own heart racing, serious. “As a friend, I mean,” he cleared out. “I miss... us. Working together, laughing together, having fun, like last night... And I’d do anything to get some of that back. So...” he shrugged, sighing again. “Drinks tonight? I invite. Just you and me, we can go to my place or anywhere you want, I don’t care the place. Or we could do dinner if you prefer or...” he felt himself getting nervous and shut up. Robin looked down for a moment and Strike saw in her face how she was trying hard to come up with a way to reject him softly. It was one thing to go out with friends, on her night when she was going to be all cheery and drunk, and another thing was just the two of them alone. Robin still wasn’t ready for that. Maybe because she didn’t trust herself around him, that she wouldn’t jump to his bones, or maybe because she didn’t trust him around her, all alone. So Strike took pity and decided to give her an easy out, after at least a full minute waiting for an answer. “Alright, I understand. It’s okay. See you tomorrow then, I hope you don’t mind staying alone for the rest of the day.” Strike said softly, turning around and grabbing his coat before leaving the office.

“Cormoran...” Robin started when she assimilated things, but he was already gone. She sighed in frustration and slapped the desk. “Bugger!” the words tasted like poison in her mouth. She didn’t want to say them ever again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't updated in a while any of my stories, but truth is the lack of reviews makes me think no one cares if I update this or not so I figure why lose my time grabbing the laptop and updating when I could be doing other stuff? I truly do enjoy writing and for me, I get the same joy even if I don't publish. The entire fic is written, I already had joy with it, publishing is only to share it if people like it.
> 
> Finally I've decided to put up this chapter, but I've decided I won't publish any other of this story unless I get 5 reviews, and that way I can filter and don't lose time updating stories that don't interest much in favour of updating more often those that do get petitions for more chapters. After all, a writer doesn't publish another book of a saga if the one before is not bought. This will go on until this story ends, if you get to see the end. This is not out of anger or anything, not really, but I think us fanfic writers need to have some pride, you know? I think we work very hard to create aditional content, and if no one cares we're equally happy writing it for ourselves and don't losing time putting it up online only so someone can steal the work (which happens very often) but we get 0 credit.


	30. Can I play with Emily?

Strike drank more than he should have, as he ate a hamburger for lunch. He called Doctor Everett, feeling himself ‘get bad again’, when the demons started to win the pulse in his brain, and afterwards he decided to follow her advice and not be alone. By then, it was already close to dinner -he had been walking around the city a lot, visiting Beth and Leda, and then phoned Doctor Everett for two hours and a half- so he decided to visit his goddaughter and just talk with his best friends. He wasn’t good at talking, but between that punch and the absolute falling downstairs of a night full of nightmares, he preferred the first one.

“Oggy, good to see you,” Ilsa smiled opening the door. Her smile dropped seeing his face, and the way he was scratching the inside of his thumb with the other nails forming a soft fist, a repetitive scratching motion he did absentmindedly without realising, every time he was anxious and struggling. “What’s wrong?”

“Can I play with Emily?” he asked, feeling stupid all of the sudden. He wasn’t a child. Where was his strength, his soldier-like rigidity, his stoic appeal? Ilsa nodded. “And also...” he added on a second thought. “I could use a hug.” He grumbled, refusing to look at her. In one minute, Ilsa was hugging him so tightly he felt the air leave his lungs. Strike did feel better immediately. It wasn’t like Leda’s perfect hugs, but something in the fact that Ilsa was a mother now seemed to do the trick.

“I think it’s about Robin,” Nick whispered to his wife as they both stood in the kitchen, looking at Strike in the sitting room, playing with almost three months old Emily. She sat on his knee and he played horse, and laughed with her sounds, and offered her toys for her to throw away. But the laugh and smiles didn’t quite meet his eyes. They had long ago realized Strike took some comfort in Emily from the fact that his own daughter was three feet underground, but it didn’t get creepy and they didn’t mind. It just meant something as simple as spending time with Emily was enough to bring him back to life.

“No shit Sherlock,” Ilsa rolled her eyes, elbowing her husband playfully. “She’s still being stone cold to him, I bet. He misses her friendship. He’s been fighting to get some of his old life back ever since...” Nick nodded.

“But she’s hurt, he fucked it up with her...”

“And so were we, Nick!” Ilsa hissed. “How much,” she whispered, “did we cry when we learned what happened to him? How bad was for us the night he left, when we didn’t sleep all night, going crazy, calling him a hundred times, driving around London trying to find him? He called us traitors too, you know? He broke our hearts too. But we moved on and forgave, because he’s our brother, our best friend, and we love him, we know who he is, and we won’t hold grudges for something his sick brain did when he wasn’t himself and that’s made him suffer and drown in regret so much. And same for Lucy. The three of us went to the hospital to look after him after he tried to kill himself, the three of us were always at the mental hospital, the three of us talked things out with him, and he got to know how we felt, apologize and redeem himself. Robin won’t even talk things out with him. And it’s been three months, you know? He was at his worst for a couple months only. When is she going to start moving her ass?” Nick laughed at her. Strike couldn’t hear them from there, so he moved to hug her and kissed her hair. “She’s the psychology girl, for fucks...”

“That mouth...” Nick squeezed her tightly. “Let’s just wait and see. She’s coming around, back at the office, right? So it’s alright. Let’s not forget her uncle died and a lot has happened, not just Strike. She just needs a bit more. Robin’s our friend, we love her too and we will wait.”

During the next few days, Nick, Ilsa and Lucy took turns to visit the office frequently enough to see how the environment was. Aside from a relatively frequent flow of clients, and the fact that many times Strike or Robin were out, rarely the both of them at the same time, working, they observed it was mostly Strike in his room. Robin in hers, each pretending the other wasn’t there, with a coldness that froze anyone who caught them in the same room at once. They moved carefully around each other, but still left cups of mugs for the other, it was just that they didn’t know how to act around each other. If by any chance Julio came to pick up Robin, Strike wouldn’t leave his office until Julio did so. It was all way far from the cheesy romance, laughter and surprise pecks that they had witnessed in the beginning of Strike’s back to work, when they were still together.

In the meantime, for Strike going to work represented the happiness he got from seeing Robin and the followed punch in his insides from seeing her indifference and coldness, keeping things professional between them. Virtually it was just like in the beginning of the relationship years ago, but now it added a certain something cold and tense in the air, hard to pinpoint, that only came with people’s vibe after their failed story. Strike never dared to invite Robin to anything again, or make any version about her personal life.

Ilsa had finally had enough, maternal instinct kicking in, a few days later. She was the lawyer, the righteous, the obsessed with justice and fairness. It only made sense. On one day Nick and Strike took Emily to the zoo -about which the girl seemed as obsessed as a baby could seem and even though the giraffes made her cry- Ilsa went to Robin’s flat.

“Hi!” Robin opened the door, surprised to see her there without any previous notice. “Everything alright?”

“I just thought maybe we could have a cup of wine like we used to,” Ilsa smiled showing a bottle of red and Robin giggled.

“Ah, thank God,” Robin let her in.

They were two cups of wine into chatting of anything and everything when Ilsa pulled the topic.

“So when exactly are you going to make any effort to be Cormoran’s friend?” Robin was taken aback and looked surprised.

“What?”

“Well, let’s see...” Ilsa tried to sound nice and gentle. “We all understand that you’re hurt and pissed and all of that, we do. Lucy, Nick and myself? We’ve been with Cormoran all of our lives. Particularly Lucy and I, since Nick came in later... but my mother is best friends since school with Joan, did you know? So I’ve known them since we were babies. We’ve seen each other naked. I told Lucy how sex worked when Lucy was nine. We’re siblings, the four of us.” Robin nodded with a slight frown. “You can imagine therefore how much it killed us to think we’d never see Cormoran again. When he left, when he came legless, when sepsis took over, and when Lucy got your call saying police told you he had tried to kill himself. Except you can’t. You were his friend of a couple years, his one night stand, and then yes, his girlfriend of a few weeks. You don’t know how it hurts to see your brother so bad he wants to die,” Ilsa’s eyes wetted in anger. “You don’t know what it is like to know someone so well, someone who’s been there for as long as you remember and who’s always been protecting everyone, caring for everyone, sweet and gentle, and see him be stripped from his freedom of choice, his mind, his job, his life, to the point of going mad. He heard voices, you know? When he killed himself. He didn’t know if we were real or a dream and the reality was him still being in Russia. He had completely lost his shit when he lost it with us and vanished. And it got so bad all he wanted to do was die, because it was torture to be alive, always paranoid feeling followed and watched and vulnerable and in danger. You are part of the reason, and you know it as much as any of us, because you’re the psychology student who sent him flying instead of bringing your dear friend to meet him at the house, way earlier!” she noticed she had started to raise her voice and paused to calm herself down. Robin looked at her, shocked, but without interrupting her. “I’m sure Cormoran would’ve loved to tell you all of this and more, like he did with you, but you won’t talk with him. He tries and tries, reaching out for you, apologizing, asking for chances time after time, but you’re busy being an angry bitch. So why, Robin. Because in my mind I can’t understand why if all of us, the moment he was back, ran to him with open arms and zero resentment, impatient to talk and apologize to each other because we knew he meant nothing and what he did doesn’t define him but his illness, because we love him and we hate to see him feel even guiltier and worse after all he’s gone through, you don’t! You just... we all understood you had to leave. But we all thought in a month, two at most, you’d be back, recovered and willing to talk things out with him. Dying to be in good terms with him through your awesome psychological talk and you’d be at least friends again. So please enlighten me. ‘Cause I saw him when Leda died, I saw him when he came to my place with bruises because Charlotte had hit him again, saying it was okay because he deserved it and he wasn’t mad and neither should us be, I saw him when Beth died, I saw him when he broke up with Charlotte. I hadn’t seen him so happy as he was with you probably ever. But I have also never seen him as bad as these months. And the idea that you’re the person he trusts the most, and loves the hardest, that you’re in his pedestal, and yet you’re continuously punishing him, because that’s how it feels like to all of us, makes me want to kill you, you know?”

Ilsa, finished her rambling speech, huffed and flopped on the sofa, closing her eyes and taking a long sip of her wine. Robin tentatively sat next to her and squeezed her knee, with a little smile.

“That was a lot of talking.”

“Don’t make me kill you Robin, please. I actually liked you.” Robin nodded and took a sip of her wine, before leaving it on the table and looking at Ilsa.

“You’re right,” Robin said finally, calmly. “I’ve known it for weeks, months even. That I wasn’t acting right, that I needed to help him, talk and make things better... because I was the agoraphobic for a year, the one with the studies and all... and I should know. I should’ve brought Doctor Everett into the house any day, I should’ve handled things better then and all of this would’ve been... not so bad. I know exactly what I should’ve done things and I know how I should do them now.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“Because when it comes to Cormoran...” Robin shrugged. “It’s weird. He’s been my boss for most of our relationship. To me, he’s always been the soldier, big badass boss, strong and powerful... and it’s incredibly surrealistic to face him after he tried to kill himself... because I know he would’ve never wanted for me to see him vulnerable. For most of the time I’ve known him he left unspoken rules of not showing vulnerability in front of me except when drunk, and I always let him pretend he hadn’t done anything embarrassing, always made sure he could keep his strong, stoic person to me, that he’d never lose that with me. I thought it was comforting to him, that he even needed for me to see him as strong soldier and nothing less, so I’ve been trying to give him that. And now he’s someone else I don’t know and it doesn’t work and he comes and tells me he misses me when he’s never been that open, in all the years...” Ilsa nodded slowly. Now she could maybe stop to understand. “At first I was too angry and hurt. But when I came back to London in August, I did it with my eyes set on fixing everything with him, I wasn’t angry or hurt. But now I... doesn’t matter how much I’ve studied, it’s stupid, isn’t it? He was in Italy so I took the time to finish my university thing. And when the dancing thing... I thought it was a good chance to start being friends but he saw Julio kissing me, he wasn’t supposed to...” she sighed. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know how to treat Strike. I don’t want him to feel awkward, or embarrassed or anything so I try avoid those topics and then I hurt him and I don’t know. When I was his girlfriend, I’d still do it because I was the girlfriend, but now... he said he didn’t want to know anything from me again. I’m hardly a friend. I don’t see I’m in the position anymore, you see? So I don’t know... how to talk with him. I want to, and he wants to, and as much as we know each other and all, we don’t know what to do.”

“Rather silly...”

“Indeed.”

“There’s this song, it says... _we don’t know how we got into this mess is it a God’s test? Someone help us cause we’re doing our best, trying to make things work but man these times are hard... but we’re gonna start by drinking old cheap bottles of wine, shit talking up all night, saying things we haven’t for a while. We’re smiling but we’re close to tears, even after all these years... we just now got the feeling that we’re meeting...”_

“ _For the first time.”_ Robin finished with a little smile. Ilsa nodded, looking satisfied. “The Script coming in hot with helpful answers.”

“When in doubt,” Ilsa took her glass of wine. “Wine.”

 

 

 


	31. Restablishing

The next day, Robin showed up at work with a brave little smile and a plan.

“Good morning!” she shouted cheerfully entering the outer office. Robin put her coat in the rack like every single morning, and then walked inside Strike’s office with an excited smile. Strike was looking at her with a slight frown of wonder and surprise, sitting at his desk in a dark shirt with reddish brightness, a tea cup on his desk. “Good morning Corm.” She said, to his stupefied expression and, for bigger shock, walked to him, took his empty mug and rubbed his hair playfully. “I’ll fill this for you.” She left the office leaving a very astonished Strike behind and got the kettle ready.

A few seconds later, Strike walked into the outer office with a cautious expression, staring at Robin as if she was a foreign object in the room.

“Good morning, Robin,” he said softly. She smiled softly at him. This wasn’t how she would usually behave a couple years ago, but this was how she was going to behave with her ex-boyfriend, her friend, who was going through the roughest times. “Did you sleep well?”

“I slept wonderfully. You?” Robin commented, putting the tea she knew Strike liked in his mug and preparing another mug for herself as the kettle warmed up the water.

“I, well, yeah,” Robin realized there was a bright of excitement in Strike’s face, as if he was starting to get excited by the new course of events and was checking how long it would last. “Thank you for the mug refill.”

“A good tea for a good British detective,” Robin chuckled pouring the water in his mug and handing it to him. “Careful, don’t you burn yourself alright?” Strike nodded, smiling at her. He too knew that wasn’t their usual way of treating each other. It was something between being together romantically and friends. And he understood. It was a way of telling each other how hard they loved the other, even if for now they couldn’t formalize a relationship as such. Robin was trying things with Julio and Strike had been texting with Ali and screwing her every time Robin frustrated him so much.

“Any interesting cases waiting for you today?” Strike asked taking a sip from his cup.

“Bah, I don’t think I’ll ever get anything as interesting as the stolen baby,” Robin chuckled. Strike laughed softly and nodded.

“What happened with her in the end?” Strike asked, realizing he had never known.

“I found her biological family. They’ve been talking a bit sometimes,” Robin explained. Strike felt suddenly very proud of her.

“You did great,” Strike nodded towards her. Robin thought for a moment and finally said it.

“Is it okay if I pass by your place for dinner? I was thinking we could... watch a movie or something. Lucy’s been telling me to watch ‘Interstellar’... and I also just bought a fantastic wine so what do you say? You, me, wine and some American movie?” Robin almost wanted to laugh at the face Strike gave her, as if he was about to cry and laugh at once. He was so speechless he could only nod enthusiastically and smile. “Great! Cook me something nice. I’m going to buy the newspaper and be right back.” She winked at him and left the office. As she jogged downstairs, she felt successful.

They walked together from work to Strike’s flat that evening, passing by Robin’s flat for a moment to pick up the wine, and, while Strike busied himself in the kitchen -he was an impressively good chef- Robin poured them wine and prepared the movie in her laptop, turning her phone off for the night. Tonight she was Strike’s, and she didn’t want a single interruption. Then, she also put ‘Don’t fear the reaper’ in the laptop and smiled at Strike’s surprise and amusement.

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you’re high,” Strike commented with a chuckle.

“Well I haven’t treated you very fairly,” Robin shrugged taking a sip of her wine and approaching him as he cut a bunch of ingredients really tiny. “I want to do things right, once and for all.” Strike looked at her, mesmerized, while one of his mother’s favourites sounded in the background, and then accidentally cut his finger. He didn’t even realized at her. “Corm, you’re bleeding!” It was Robin who looked down and saw his finger bleeding.

Strike then felt the pain and looked down, feeling dizzy at the blood. Well, there came an unknown consequence from his attack: his leg was hurting at the same time as his finger, which hurt probably way more than it should, and he got dizzy with blood, for the first time in his life.

“Shit, Robin I can’t look,” Strike said looking at him, keeping his calmness. “Could you take care of it for me? I don’t know, I get dizzy if I look.” Robin nodded and sat him on a stool, putting his hand under the water in the sink and analyzing the wound.

“It’s a clean cut, but it’s one of those little bitches that bleed like crazy.”

“Bugger,” they said at once, looking at each other and chuckling.

“It’s not such a perfect job when it doesn’t have your accent,” Strike commented. Robin blushed and rolled her eyes.

“Let me take care of this first.” Robin ran to the emergency aid kit in the bathroom and took a band-aid, some gauzes and Betadine. Then she sat on another stool beside Strike and, holding his injured hand with both hands, pressed the gauze against the wound. “How are you holding up?” Robin asked making pressure to stop the copious bleeding.

“I’m well, thank you,” Strike kept his eyes on the laptop, humming at unison with the song, and Robin stopped his bleeding and put on a band-aid and Betadine.

“All set up. What were you cooking?” Robin asked him then, looking at the ingredients.

“I was going to make a very Italian lasagne. Got the receipt there,” Strike commented. Robin’s stomach growled and he laughed. “Alright then!” Robin laughed and elbowed him playfully.

They ate dinner as they watched ‘Interstellar’ and in the end, they were both excitedly sharing theories of what had happened in the movie and laughing at the other’s theories, messing with each other.

“...So therefore, we would be God!” Strike finished explaining another one of his theories. Robin laughed drunkenly as she took a sip of her wine, and they stared at each other, smiling stupidly all in-love.

“You look really handsome when you laugh,” Robin murmured.

“Not like the rest of the time, when I’m a hairy ogre, rawr!” Strike joked, making her giggle softly.

“That’s a lion!” Robin chuckled. She was on the sofa with her feet shoeless on Strike’s lap and he was stroking them absentmindedly. Strike shrugged apologetically but giggled. “I missed this. Us.”

“But not the us pre mission,” Strike commented without giving it importance. “We’re just trying to have all the fun of romance without actually going there. Some would call it a dysfunctional friendship, but I’m loving every second of it.” Robin shrugged, supporting her elbow on the back of the sofa, her cheek against her knuckles and the glass of wine in her free hand, staring at Strike intently.

“I say cheers to dysfunctional friendships,” Robin raised her cup, making Strike chuckle, take his from the coffee table, and toast with her. As they savoured the red liquid travelling down their throats, they stared at each other and both left their glasses on the coffee table at the same time. Strike resumed her feet massage. “We aren’t ready for serious relationships,” Robin whispered. “And we both know we wouldn’t be with each other if it wasn’t dead serious. I need single time for the first time since I was sixteen. So do you, so we can deal with our things before we compromise with someone else and fuck them up.” Strike nodded slowly.

“Yet you’re with Julio...” Robin shrugged.

“Come on, Julio and I aren’t serious. I wouldn’t be with him if we were. We just sleep together every now and then, but mostly... just spend time together. Friends with benefits I suppose.”

“Why can’t we be that?”

“Corm, you know we could seriously hurt each other with that,” Robin said softly. “It won’t hurt that much if things with Julio end rough, but if you and I get on something like that... you matter for me a hundred times more than him. You understand that, right?” She looked at him intently and, at the confession, he smiled a little.

“In that case, you’re right. But what if... if things with him get better and better and then...?”

“Let’s not think of the what ifs, Corm,” Robin reached out a hand to stroke his hair. “What matters is that we’re happy and alright, that we can be hundred percent okay on our own, remember? You always wanted that for me, after Matt,” Strike nodded slowly. “We’ll be our very best... and if we’re meant to be together, I know we will be. When the time is right. And if in the end I’m with Julio that will just mean someone’s going to come into your life and make you happier than I could’ve ever done.”

“You seem very sure of yourself,” Strike commented, squeezing her feet affectionately.

“I was raised with that,” Robin chuckled. “My uncle always said that life is a big puzzle and in the end everything is exactly where it should be, no matter what. He always had faith, every time I was low, he said, better things are right around the corner Rob, just be patient. One has to be super patient because the best things take their time to be built.”

“Things that are done too quickly end too quickly,” Strike philosophised. Robin nodded, smiling a little. Strike leaned his head against her hand, stroking his curls absentmindedly. “But I don’t want to wait until the end to be with you, Robin. I want to walk to end with you.” Robin stared intently at him.

“To the end of life?” Robin asked. Strike nodded.

“To the end of everything. After all that’s happened all I know is that time is so precious, I don’t want to waste it. We never know when it’s gonna be over...”

“I know,” Robin sighed. “Right now, we should take comfort on the fact that we are so in love with each other, yes, I’m in love with you,” she added to his surprised eyes, making him smile softly. She smiled too. “What we have is special and we can’t panic thinking of time. If we panic, we’ll rush and we’ll fuck it up. Let’s just prepare ourselves and when the time’s right...”

“We’ll be together forever.” Strike finished for her, feeling his heart beating strongly. Robin grinned and nodded at him.

“I know we’re too good people to not have our happy ever after Corm. Just be patient, and it will come however it has to come.” Robin insisted, optimistic. Strike nodded and tickled her softly in her belly, making her squirm and snort a laugh. Strike smiled warmly at her.

“Have you truly not been single since you were sixteen?” Strike asked, looking for a laugh, mocking her. Robin laughed.

“Up until now, no. Well, considering that when you left I always considered we were together already, in some way. I just knew I would wait for you.” Strike chuckled and pulled from her lights to sit her on his lap, putting his strong arms around her. “Hey! That’s cheating!” Strike tickled her and as they both laughed, he stopped and she leaved her cheek against his shoulder. “You’ve aged years this year.” Robin whispered, caressing his stubbly cheek. He almost purred, leaning against her touch. He sensed her voice was full of concern, not wanting to insult him.

“Well this year has exhausted me,” Strike kissed her palm. “Let’s do something...” He spit in his palm and offered his hand to her, as to shake hands, all serious. Robin looked puzzled at him. “Let’s make a saliva promise.” He said super serious. Robin cracked up.

“What?”

“A saliva promise,” Strike nodded. “It was sacred when I was a kid, come on, we’ve both tasted each other and now you’re going to get picky?” Robin blushed and he chuckled.

“Alright, what is this super serious promise about?” Robin said teasing, with a half smile. She loved these random, odd sides of him that sometimes came out, just for her, and made him all the more adorable.

“It’s about always being partners. No matter what happens, where we go, what we do, who we end up with, what our lives become. We’re always love and care for each other like family,” Strike said. Robin’s eyes got glassy and she smiled at him adoringly. She was so not expecting something so meaningful. “We’re partners. We have each other’s backs. And that should never change or be put at risk, no matter how pissed or angry we are, how much we hurt each other. In any moment of truth, we won’t fail each other. We’ll be there, negative feelings and memories forgotten, just be there. We’ll never let the other be alone, we’ll just always be there.”

“Having each other’s backs.” Robin grinned and tightly shook his hand, eagerly, after spitting on her own palm. Strike grinned back, letting her squeeze her fingers numb. Robin them brought the back of his hand to her mouth and when Strike thought she was going to imitate his classic kissing the back of her hand, she chuckled mischievously, and licked his hand.

“Oh God,” Strike laughed out loud and she laughed too, pulling him into her arms. He felt himself in absolute comfort and safety, his arms strongly wrapped around her, his nose nuzzled against her cheek, her scent filling his nostrils. He was so happy he could cry.

 

 

 


	32. Pride and stupidity

Robin persuaded Strike of building a blanket fort in his sitting room at one in the morning. By then, she had decided to stay the night and they both had changed into comfortable clothes; a pyjama for Strike, and panties and one of Strike’s huge pyjama t-shirts for Robin. They built the fort with blankets, sheets, duvets, cushions, the sofa’s bigger cushions and pillows between laughter, as Strike tried a complex architectonical design and Robin just went by instinct, to the point of ruining Strike’s masterpiece and earning being tickled to the point of crying of laughter, twisting in the floor trying to get rid of his ‘torture’ as he too laughed. When the fort was ready it looked like a small blanket-made tree-house in the middle of the sitting room, and they stood proudly looking at their masterpiece.

“There’s something missing,” Robin looked thoughtful for a moment and then ran to the drawer where she knew Strike put his little white-yellow Christmas lights, pulling them out of it and managing to collocate them hanging inside their fort, plugging them in and turning the lights of the house off. “Perfect.” Strike grinned, seeing the little lights adorning the fort -big enough for two adults lying down, having in count Strike’s enormous size- while blinking really slowly.

“I love it. I don’t think I’ve ever made a blanket fort,” Strike commented cheerfully. He wasn’t even tired, despite the clock nearing two in the morning.

“Really?” Robin looked surprised, and smiled at him, punching him in the arm softly, playful. “Congrats Mr. Strike. You’ve achieved your very first one and it’s perfect. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen such a perfect one.”

“Well I _am_ trained for camping because of the army,” Strike chuckled. “Come on, get inside. I’m going to get rid of my leg and be right back.”

“You love how gore that sounds, don’t you?” Robin shouted at him as he left the room, and he laughed loudly. Robin chuckled as she entered the fort and lied on the amount of cushions, pillows and the soft, warm duvet, snuggling up. The lights looked like fireflies in the darkness, their light soft, blinking in random patterns. Strike joined her shortly after, snuggling next to her, and putting a carefully wrapped present on Robin’s belly. She took it with a smile. “What is this?”

“It’s past two in the morning. You were born exactly twenty-eight years ago, right now,” Strike reminded her. She had forgotten her birthday was there already, October 9th, and he even remembered the exact time of her birth. “I’ve had this ready for weeks, waiting for the perfect occasion actually.” Robin grinned at his thoughtfulness.

“Thank you,” Robin said, unwrapping the present, and her breath caught seeing what it was, her eyes filled with tears as a big smile appeared in her face. She was staring at a framed picture taken the day she had inaugurated her new flat with a small party. The picture featured, from the chest up, Strike and Robin in the centre, grinning at the camera while Robin held baby George with one arm, a hand on Strike’s thigh and his arms wrapped around them, Nick and Ilsa in one side, Lucy and Greg in another with their two eldest children on their laps, sitting on a sofa. Everyone grinning or half-laughing, happy. Robin remembered that night had been incredibly fun. She smiled happily, getting emotional, and brushed her eyes. “This is perfect...”

“Open it, the frame,” Strike commented with a soft whisper. Robin turned the framed picture around and opened the back of the frame, seeing there was a note on the back of the picture that said ‘June 5th, 2010. Greg, Lucy, Phil & Jack Rickman; you, George Rickman & me; Nick, Ilsa & Emily (inside belly) Herbert. YOUR SOUTHERN FAMILY.’ Robin gasped and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Happy birthday, Robin,” Strike brushed the tear away and she looked at him, overwhelmed. “I know you’ve never had many friends but... I hope this always reminds you you’ve got one hell of an adoptive family.” Speechless, Robin just hugged him close until she calmed down, when she pulled apart and grinned, rubbing her eyes. Strike giggled at her. “Do you hate it?”

“This is the best gift ever. You know, right?” Robin giggled, squeezing his cheek. “You’re the best.” Robin left the present on the coffee table and then snuggled again with Strike. They lied in comfortable silence for a while, staring at the lights as if they were stars.

After a while, Robin rolled to look at him. Strike looked so peaceful, the shadow of laughter still present in his face. Robin put a hand over his belly and he absentmindedly put his hand over hers, interlacing their fingers.

“What happened to you?” Robin asked then, finally braving up. Strike turned his head to look at her.

“Do you really want to start your birthday with shitty stories?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Do I want to start my birthday making things right with the most special person in my life?” Robin smiled softly. “Of course, silly.” Strike smiled a little and looked back at the lights over them.

“It’s stupid because I always knew mental illnesses existed. I saw it in the army, when that guy I told you killed himself, I saw it in my mother, I saw it in my sister and myself after her death, and in Charlotte... I had felt depressed before. Awful, ruined, broken. All of that. But all those times,” Strike said softly, with calmness, as if he spoke following the rhythm of a ballad. “I always knew I had myself, that no matter how sad, I’d get up and continue with my life. I had never seen myself in a situation where my brain, my main resource for everything, every heartache no matter how big, work, survival... _everything_... just was truly not working right. And I’m not talking about just being sad anymore. Just being angry, or hurt. It wasn’t just about feeling bad... feelings I can manage, it’s just heartache, I learned young to manage that. But my brain was...” Strike shook his head, trying to find the words. Then he chuckled at the mental irony. “It betrayed me completely. It became untrustworthy, for the first time. Unreasonable. Unexplainable. Out of my control and understatement. Once I wasn’t sleeping and I was never rested, I was so weak I guess my brain just fully lost it, you know?” Robin stared intently at him, listening to anything he had to say. “I couldn’t think clearly, it was as if I was always high or something, it was just so blurry...” he looked at Robin, who made a soft micro smile in encouragement and squeezed his hand. “I started hearing voices then. It wasn’t like schizophrenia, it wasn’t even like a solid voice outside myself, it was more like a firm, continuous train of thought that never left my mind, telling me I was in danger. So I always felt in danger. Followed, afraid. I couldn’t distinguish reality from dreams anymore. I started questioning reality and thinking I was still in Russia, having my leg cut, and all I was saying in London was just a dream. Like seriously, bat-shit crazy. I haven’t been able to make any of this clear until Doctor Everett helped.” He sighed, frowning a little.

“That’s alright...” Robin snuggled closer to him. “And then?”

“Then it all just made me more tired. I was agonizing to rest, I hadn’t actually rested in weeks. It was a torment. It made my head worse, my nightmares worse, my mood absolutely shit, getting aggressive and all... but in reality I think I was just a scared kitten, you know? Vulnerable, fragile and terrified of suffering again, of what was happening to me, of myself... I ended up feeling there was no one I could trust, not even myself and my brain. I was absolutely mad,” Strike explained, looking at her again. “And when you said you’d get me into a mental hospital I... it was like a confirmation that there was no one I could trust, a reminder of my loneliness, and it was like my brain screaming danger, run, run, run. Because I knew I was safe here, but I didn’t want to be taken anywhere by complete strangers for God knows what. I didn’t feel safe. I was scared shitless and my brain wasn’t working, I just... nuts, Robin. That’s how I was. Nuts. I couldn’t even remember it until Doctor Everett suggested hypnosis, so I did that and it was like being in a videogame, very, very drunk and high. Like I went back to that moment, seeing and feeling exactly as in that moment, and I almost got an arrhythmia for that. I ran to a motel. I was panicking, I was desperate, I was looking for an out. And then I relived deciding to go to Man’s Island, thinking of hiding in the forest so no one would find me, d’you realize how mental that is?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Robin said softly, moving the hand on his belly to caress his cheek. “It is mental. But you were sick. Or you are, but now is treated.”

“Yeah...” Strike nodded slowly. “I got so worse in the hours before I tried to... I was hallucinating. Seeing things, like eyes looking at me in the dark, scary faces around the street... My leg hurt so much... and I heard voices, scary voices, and had the feeling that everyone I crossed paths with was looking at me and plotting against me in whispers,” Strike continued, remembering his hypnosis session very clearly. “Hypnosis couldn’t get me to the moment where I tried to kill myself. But I have memories, in flashes... buying the alcohol, asking for the strongest they had. Buying the pills. Crying. Shouting. Agonizing in pain like, physical, mental, inside... it was terrible. And I wanted to stop it. To rest and feel safe. I remember thinking they wouldn’t find me alive, to torture me. I don’t exactly know who they are. But then I was in the hospital and I was more rested, painless, and medicated and I guess I was good enough to understand enough to know I had to stay in the hospital and trust the doc. I wasn’t hallucinating anymore, which definitely helps.”

“And now?” Robin asked, looking at him with affection. “How is it going?” Strike shrugged.

“Normally, I’m alright. I take my pills, I text Doctor Everett often, we call each other and I visit her anytime I feel like I need it, aside from the scheduled sessions once a week. I drink less, smoke less, take better care of my sleeping routine and what I eat...” Strike breathed out, enjoying Robin’s hand going down to rest on his chest, drawing circles slowly with her thumb. “I write, a lot. I liked to write when I was younger, like journals, but now is religious, and only Doctor Everett reads them, sometimes. Knowing it’s private makes me just say whatever’s in my mind, and no one’s judging. Whenever I feel my head is too full, you know?” Robin smiled a little and nodded.

“I do that too. It’s a great technique, there are writers that say that writing is a way of letting one’s demons out,” Robin commented. Strike smiled with closed mouth, looking at her wanting to know more. She smiled a little at his curiosity. “They say there are three kinds of demons. Personal, historical and cultural. Cultural if they’re provoked by your culture, historical if they’re provoked by your personal history or the one in which you are, and personal if it’s any other personal matter or event, or family, friends...” Robin shrugged. Strike nodded slowly.

“You’re so smart,” he chuckled, making her blush. “Yeah... demons. There are days when I feel they’re winning and I can sort of use techniques that I’ve been taught and cope and get out before it gets worse, but other days I don’t manage or I don’t even see it coming. In my worst days, I call Doctor Everett for hours. I also spend all the time I can with people, mostly Emily,” Robin chuckled. “She makes me a lot of company and that way her parents can get some romance back... sometimes it’s like holding Beth.” Robin leaned to kiss his shoulder and snuggle closer. “Doc also said to just ask for the things I need, even if it’s embarrassing. If I need a hug, just ask for it, right? Not... sitting sulking and getting worse.”

“There’s pride and then there’s stupidity,” Robin reminded him, both smiling adoringly at each other. Strike nodded and hugged her as close as possible, pressing their foreheads together.

“Thank you, Robin,” Strike whispered, stroking her cheek. “You’re the best thing I’ve had.”

“You will always have me.” Robin kissed his cheek, and they closed their eyes, ready to sleep. “Sorry it took me so long.”

“The best things take time.”

 

 

 


	33. Tea spilled

For Robin’s 28 th birthday, they had prepared a surprise party with all their friends, including those from Robin’s dance academy. So after a particularly joyful workday, Strike dragged Robin to her flat to change, convincing her they should go get drunk on her honour.

“But why do I need to change? You’ve seen me worse!” Robin shouted from her bedroom. Strike waited outside the door, patiently sitting on a stool.

“Because it is important for someone to glam up on their birthday, is not just any day,” Strike shouted back. Robin finally appeared wearing her hair lose and a dark blue party dress, and what looked like comfortable heels. As comfortable as heels could be.

“So?” Strike looked at her up and down, standing up, and cleared his throat.

“Drop dead gorgeous,” Robin chuckled holding onto his arm and grabbing her coat and purse. “Let’s go miss...”

The two arrived by taxi to Robin’s dance academy.

“What are we?”

“Vida mía!” Julio came running out of the building, with a nice suit, and grinning, his arms reaching to Robin. Strike stepped back and Robin looked surprised at both. “Happy birthday, Robin.” Julio took her hands and kissed her lovingly. Robin pulled apart shortly after.

“What is this about?”

“A surprise party,” Julio chuckled. “Cormoran had the idea! Come on in, everyone is waiting for you!”

They entered a large warm room filled with music and party and Robin greeted her friends, all surprised about the party. Strike smiled as she was dragged to dance by her many friends, since in the academy they had formed a little family. Julio had her dancing an Argentine tango in seconds, for other’s amusement.

“So how is it going?” Ilsa had reached Strike with a beer, that he happily accepted.

“Look at how happy she is,” Strike moved his head pointing at Robin. “This is going really smoothly.”

“No jealousy?” Ilsa questioned raising an eyebrow. Strike looked at Robin, laughing while dancing with her friends, Lucy and Savannah included, at times dancing romantically with Julio and smiled, shaking his head.

“At the end of today, she’ll be with him. But at the end of the book, she’ll be with me,” Strike looked smugly at Ilsa. “He’s her now. I’m her forever.”

At some point, Strike managed to drag Robin for a dance, even if his leg was already screaming. As they moved, Strike put his lips close to her ear.

“Look around you,” Strike said, their bodies swinging between the multitude. “Look... a year ago, you were married to an asshole and had a job that’s not half as cool as our job,” Robin giggled. “Now... you’ve got all of this, all this people, and so much more. Be damn proud, Robin.”

“Thank you,” Robin kissed his cheek. He could see the emotion in her eyes as he swirled her around, and she came back to stare into his eyes. “You’re... you’re truly special, Cormoran.” Strike snorted a laugh.

“Cheesy,” Robin slapped him on the chest, playfully.

After the dance, Strike let some friends drag Robin and he walked to the buffet zone, finding some sandwiches that looked truly yummy and giving a big bite to one, moaning at the nice taste. Julio came around, his black hair a mess from dancing, his dark eyes warm towards Strike as he smiled at him politely, grabbing a glass of juice.

“Thanks for involving us in this, Cormoran,” Julio commented looking sympathetically at him. “She’s really happy. You’re a very good friend.” Strike shrugged.

“Is not every day that one turns twenty-eight.”

Strike felt confused about how he could not dislike Julio in the same level he had disliked Matthew. Julio was just charming. After a few minutes, they somehow were immersed in a conversation about Greek Gods, and then somehow they went on to talk about the best food in Argentina, and when Strike realized, he had spent twenty solid minutes deep in conversation with Julio and loving it. Julio let it clear that he was a highly educated man with loads of culture, someone who had been studying dance since very young and had travelled the world, and spoke four languages with fluidity: English, Spanish, German and Norwegian. He was also attractive and Strike started to feel somewhat threatened, his early confidence leaving him soon. How long would Robin need to realize Julio was much better than him?

“Cormoran, I hope you don’t mind if I ask, but I just don’t want to intrude between two people you know?” Julio asked politely as they moved to fill their glasses with more beer. “Is there something still opened between Robin and you?” Strike looked at him, remembering the conversation he had had with Robin the night before, talking until very late, how she had reassured him she loved him and Julio was just a friend with benefits. He felt sad for Julio, but Robin was Robin. He couldn’t betray her.

“Julio, whatever happened between Robin and me is over. We’re, however, job partners and very close friends, more like family, so sometimes it may seem like there’s something more... but there really isn’t,” Strike assured him. The last thing Robin needed was for Julio to confront her with jealousy. Julio seemed happy with his answers and nodded, satisfied. Then the director of the academy, a woman in her late thirties that had a killing body for her age, called everyone’s attention, standing on a chair.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced. “As some of you know, every year London celebrates a big samba competition called Britain’s Got Samba, which is one of the most prestigious competitions of samba in Europe. Each academy gets to send their best man and woman dancers to represent them at the competition, and the winner couple earns a trip to Hawaii for two with all expenses paid, an award and twenty thousand quid, and a prize of fifty thousand quid is given to their academy, aside from the prestige an academy gets for that. Ours hasn’t been able to win it yet, and a few days ago the teachers and I decided who would represent us at the competition. We think is the right moment to announce it!” There was a general cheering. “So the chosen ones to represent this academy at Britain’s Got Samba are... Julio and Robin!”

Strike saw Julio’s grin and people cheered. Robin turned to look at Julio and mouth ‘what?’ in absolute surprise, running to him, and they hugged as people cheered.

“You’re an amazing dancer Robin, of course you’d get chosen!” another dancer said, grinning at Robin.

“I’ve barely been here for a few months!” Robin was amazed, happy, glad, and terrified, obviously. Strike found her endearing, and felt so proud of her.

“Just go kick some ass, Robin,” Strike chuckled, hugging her in celebration. Julio turned her around and kissed her.

The next day, Strike spent it working outside under a heavy rainfall, taking turns between a boy whose mother wanted to know how he got bruises, if he was suffering bullying or what, and a dancer whose boyfriend wanted to know if she was lesbian. After a long day, he went back to his flat and found Robin sitting on the steps at the entry of the building, looking rather grim, her hair damp against her face, which made him think she must’ve caught the rain, that as the night came, had ended. Strike looked at her, surprised, and invited her inside, where he served her a warm mug of tea while she changed into some of his clothes for comfort, putting her wet ones in the dryer.

“What happened?” Strike asked as she cradled the mug between her hands, flopping on his bed next to her as they both sat with their backs on the headboard, Robin wrapped up in a blanket, wearing a long-sleeved, burgundy t-shirt that belonged to Strike and smelled strongly of his body wash. “You look like you had a rough day, bad cases?” Robin looked up to him, throwing her head back against the headboard for support.

“I woke up super late today, after all the partying last night,” Robin commented. Strike had already imagined that would happen and had texted her when he got up telling her not to bother coming into the office until she was fully rested. “Went to the office and after I closed the office, Julio wanted to celebrate our good news with the dancing competition, so we went for a drink and then, we went to have sex at his place,” she stated the facts as if she was talking about a crime and Strike raised his eyebrows, intrigued. Her voice sounded as tired as it could get. “After we...” she rolled her eyes and shook her head. “After we had both come during the intercourse, he pulled out of me and there wasn’t a condom.”

“He didn’t use one?” Strike asked, starting to feel like paying Julio a little angry visit.

“No, he did,” Robin snorted a laugh at the dark humour of the situation, and looked at Strike intently. “It came out, _inside_ of me. It was inside of my vagina.” Strike’s eyes widened.

“Bugger!” Robin smiled at his use of the word. “Do you need me to pull it out or...?” Robin laughed out loud and shook her head.

“No, Julio managed to pull it out with his fingers. But evidently, everything had spilled inside already, so I went to the clinic to get the pill,” Robin sighed. “How can these things happen? Like, it has never happened to me, and it’s not the first time Julio and I had sex so, how? Were the condoms too big? Because I need to know, you know?”

“Well, it has never happened to me,” Strike put an arm around Robin’s shoulders and let her snuggle against him for comfort. “I don’t know, ask the internet or the gyn.”

“I did. After such scare I wasn’t in the mood so I told Julio I had some more work to do and came to work. I was going to call you but I realized you’d be doing surveillance and I thought you were probably in no situation to talk. I’m here because when I was back in the office, I googled it. And you know what I realized?”

“What?”

“You’re going to laugh,” Robin looked up at him. “We had used one of _my_ condoms, which are _your_ size.”

“But you and I never... not after...” Strike struggled with his words.

“I know but I had them just in case. And they’re XL, obviously, but Julio’s like, thinner and...” Strike started laughing, covering his eyes with a hand. Robin started laughing too. “Don’t laugh! Listen, he must’ve... don’t laugh Corm...” they were both cracking up and Robin couldn’t talk anymore, as laughter took over.

Red with laughter, Strike managed to speak.

“He saw XL in the envelope and thought you had him in great esteem, so he didn’t want to tell you it wasn’t tight enough!” he shouted while laughing, starting to laugh harder. At that, Robin nodded, struggling to breathe through the laughter as she too, got red.

When they both finally calmed down, Strike had to pull a tissue to dry his eyes.

“I had to come because here, this is yours,” Robin giggled as she pulled a box of condoms out of her purse, that was on the nightstand, and threw the box on his lap. He took it containing his laughter and Robin chuckled at him. “Asshole, laughing at my misfortune...”

“I’m sorry but if you sleeping with other men is going to become a comedy program of men getting a hurt pride from how big I am, then I’m going to be laughing loads more,” Strike smiled at her, grabbing the condoms. “Ali will appreciate it.” Robin snorted a laugh.

“You two... what do you even see in her? She’s not your type.”

“What’s my type?”

“Well, you know, nut women like Charlotte or myself,” Robin joked, winking. Strike squeezed her big cheek, incapable of resisting it when her dimple showed.

“Smarty-pants uh? Uhm, I don’t want to sound like a jerk but she basically has a killer body and is dying for my dick. Plus she’s funny.” Strike answered her question. She pretended to be indignant and elbowed her.

“That’s no way of talking about a lady!” Strike rolled his eyes and pulled her into his arms. “You, soft bear...” Robin murmured against his chest, closing her eyes. That was exactly the comfort she needed.

“How are you though?” Strike asked her, concerned.

“Right now I’m in heaven,” Robin whispered thoughtlessly, before falling asleep.

 

 

 


	34. This is the war

As the days passed by, Robin’s dance competition approached. Robin felt so delighted by being chosen, although also incredibly nervous, because when they had mentioned it at the academy she hadn’t given it any importance; to her, a dance competition had sounded like a triviality compared with other matters of her life, and she assumed she was too beginner to compete. She had never even imagined herself participated, or dreamed with it for a moment. But Robin had also progressed really quickly, learning steps and movements as if she had been born doing samba, remembering her school dances. And everyone appreciated her and encouraged her at the academy, seeing how well she did and being vocal about it, which made her feel so supported, since all the other femmes, instead of being jealous bitches, just supported her through thick and thin.

Robin’s friends assisted to each show over the weeks and cheered excitedly every time Robin and Julio passed to the next round. Strike took a good amount of her work load upon himself so she had more time for the intense rehearsals, assuring Robin that she should just enjoy it, since it was a very short experience: part of the challenge was that the entire competition only lasted five weeks, which meant the dancers were in a constant rush, constantly dancing, constantly challenging their bodies to keep working through exhaustion. Soon, they were in the semi-finals, their efforts compensated.

“Robin’s a terrific dancer,” Julio was telling Strike as he waited for Robin one day at work, picking her up to go and rehearse. “I’m sure she could win this without rehearsing at all.” Strike chuckled and nodded.

“I’m glad you think so,” Strike, feeling his leg starting to hurt from the long use of the prosthesis, sat with a grunt.

“Oh, does it hurt?” Julio asked, concerned. Robin had gone to the bathroom to change, so she shouldn’t take long. “Can I help?”

“It’s okay, thanks,” Strike sat back on the sofa and relaxed, but Julio was having none of it, and he took a pack of ice from the mini-fridge they had in the office, handing it to Strike. It wasn’t really useful, but Strike appreciated his intention.

“I’m ready,” Robin came out of the bathroom in her sports clothes, her more sophisticated work garments in a holdall. “Is it okay if I leave the holdall in the inner office?” Robin asked Strike, frowning as she saw the ice in his hand. “Everything alright?”

“Leave the holdall there, yeah. And don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“He was in pain,” Julio explained. Robin nodded slowly. “Maybe you should drive him to the doctor, we can reschedule.”

“Nonsense, you two are in a rush and I’m completely fine, but thank you,” Strike stood up again. “I just need to sit down for a while.” He added, seeing Robin’s questioning eyes. “Go. Win that thing.”

“Okay, fine, call me if you feel worse okay?” Robin gave him a quick hug.

“Go!” Strike practically pushed them outside and, with a breath out in relaxation, he flopped on the farting leather sofa of the outer office.

“Are you sure he’s okay?” Julio asked concerned as Robin and him jogged downstairs, hands interlaced.

“Yeah, don’t worry. He’s a rough dude,” Robin was surprised at the way Julio and Strike got along, and Julio seemed genuinely worried. Robin felt better knowing Strike gave them his blessing and looked at Julio with better eyes than at Matt’s - made her feel like she was truly dating a good guy.

“Fine, but after rehearsals we’re coming back and checking on him. We can bring him tacos!” Julio, with his strong Argentine accent, smiled charmingly under the sun, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Oh, and this is for you.” He pulled a single flower out of his pocket, small and blue. “Saw it on a bush coming here and it reminded me of you. Seems little thing but stands strongly against any wind.” Robin blushed, accepting the nice-smelling flower.

“Thank you, Don Juan,” Robin joked, tiptoeing to kiss him, and they continued their way to the metro station.

That night, Strike went to have dinner in Bromley, at Lucy’s, taking advantage to spend time with little George, who was now seven months old and looking more like Strike than any other of his nephews, who were more like their father’s side. Sitting on Lucy’s comfortable sofa with George on his lap after the two elders had been put to bed, Strike was successfully bringing George to sleep, humming songs to him while Lucy and Greg put some order in the kitchen after dinner.

“Here,” Lucy came, offering him a small glass of liquor, her long dark hair cascading in waves.

“Thank you,” Strike took a sip of the glass, holding the baby strongly with his other arm as George fell asleep with his eyelids half opened. “He’s such a weird sleeper.” Strike chuckled at the boy. Lucy rolled her eyes and caressed George’s hair.

“How are you and Robin?” Lucy asked.

“We’re very good. We’ll end up together, she just needs this time of doing her thing, fucking a guy without compromises, getting some life-experience...” he shrugged. “Sooner or later, we’ll be together. And then I’ll be ready, Doctor Everett claims I’ve done a huge progress.”

“I’m proud,” Lucy kissed his cheek affectionately. “You know we’re here if you need anything. Talking about problems, all good with Charlotte?” Strike nodded.

“She’s happy in her new flat, working in the fashion industry. She’s happy, I’m happy,” Lucy nodded. “Are you coming to the finals in two weeks? Robin’s competition.” Greg came into the room and sat with them.

“I’m not missing one show and we both know it,” Strike chuckled, and his mobile rang. Putting the glass on the coffee table, he saw Robin was calling.

“Talking about the queen of Rome... Hi Robin!” Strike’s blood ran cold when he heard Robin’s tragic crying. He panicked. “Robin where are you?”

“S-, ‘Tland Y’rd,” Robin tried to say between sobs, but she was crying too heavily.

“Scotland Yard,” Strike handed Greg the baby. “I’m on my way, don’t move. I won’t hang up okay? You can talk with me.”

“I’ll drive you,” Lucy followed Strike as her brother ran out of the house, and they got into the car. During the ride, Robin managed to calm herself down a little.

“He’s dead!”

“Who?” Strike asked, his heart about to burst out of his chest.

“Julio.”

“Julio’s dead?” Strike said with a strangled voice. Lucy accelerated and Strike, who hated when Lucy drove because of her high speed, encouraged it this time.

“Corm...” Robin sobbed. Her crying was terrible, heavy, dramatic, tragic. It was the one of someone dead, for sure. She could hardly breathe and Strike sensed it through the phone.

“Relax sweetie,” Strike mustered the softest voice he could. “Listen, Lucy’s driving super fast, we’ll be there soon, really soon. Try to breathe and calm down okay? I’m here and I’m going to make this better, I promise. Whoever killed him, we’ll find them, I swear to you we will.”

Too late for Strike’s liking, they ran into Scotland Yard. Anstis, Strike’s old friend from the army, directed him to what looked like a meetings’ room. Robin sat on a chair, her clothes bloodstained, her face swollen from crying, a glass of water empty on the table in front of her. Strike ran to her and she fell into his arms, too exhausted to keep crying, just clinging onto him for dear life.

“What happened, Anstis?” Strike roared, looking at the policeman.

“Robin and Mr. Hernández were dancing in facilities provided by the Britain’s Got Samba’s organisers, rehearsing, when according to Robin, Mr. Hernández went outside to attend a phone call while she finished practising some movements on her own, the music too loud to carry on phone conversations inside. After a while,” Anstis recounted, Robin shacking in Strike’s arms as he whispered comforting words, hugging her tightly. “Robin thought it was weird Mr. Hernández wasn’t back yet. She had lost sense of time with the dancing and over half an hour had passed. She went outside, looking for him, it’s a ground floor of a building in Earlsfield. She looked around, asked the security guard at the front door but he said Mr. Hernández hadn’t passed by, so Robin thought he might’ve used the backdoor, which was closer to their rehearsing room, and when she went there, she found Mr. Hernández on the floor, in the alley there, in a pool of his own blood. Someone had ripped his throat off. The security cameras haven’t been able to tell us much, whoever did it knew where the cameras were. Came with a black hoodie and gloves, nothing to see.”

“Can we take her home?” Lucy asked, looking at Robin full of concern.

“Yes, she’s not a suspect. She called emergencies right away, had no motive, and had no occasion, the security cameras showed Mr. Hernández leaving the building and Robin was seen exiting the room only when she said so.” Anstis explained. “Take her home, comfort her. We’ve called his family in Argentina, they’re on their way.”

**. . .**

After tucking Robin in his bed, Strike gave her one of his strongest tranquilizers to put her to sleep, wearing his pyjamas.

“Close your eyes and try to sleep alright?” Strike kissed her forehead. “In the morning, we’ll start war against whoever did this. But for now, you need to rest.”

“Will you stay with me?” Robin whispered, sleepy. “There’s space for us both.”

“Of course,” Strike slid under the duvet next to Robin, and she snuggled into his arms, as he wrapped himself tightly around her, kissing her hair right over her ear. “I will never let anything happen to you, Robin. No one’s ever putting a finger on you.” Strike whispered in the dark, Robin a dead weight between his arms, as he protectively held her close. “I’ve got you.”

In the morning, it was all over the news. Robin looked hangover as Strike handed her a mug of tea and breakfast and sat next to her, an arm soon around her, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back.

“How are you doing?” Strike asked delicately.

“I’m shocked,” Robin sighed. “I wasn’t in love but damn... he was my friend. I cared a hell of a lot for him...” she shook her head. “Why would anyone do this? What if it was because of me?”

“Can you come up with anyone who might’ve had reasons to kill him?” Strike asked her.

“Any of the male dancers at our academy,” Robin said. “If something happens to him, the academy sends someone else to fill his shoes. Win the competition now that we’ve gotten rid of most of our competition, getting so far in. And also any of the couples we’re going against in the next few rounds,” Robin’s pale face looked at him full of determination. “They’re very serious about this in this world. Is like the hunger games. I told Anstis that.”

“And you didn’t see or hear...?”

“No,” Robin shook her head. “The music was too loud, and you know when samba’s sounding...” she sighed again. “If only I had gone out sooner...”

“You might’ve been dead too,” Strike cut her. “Don’t ever throw the blame on you. The blame is of the murderer, Robin. And we will find them.”

Their next step was going into Robin’s academy and interrogating every single soul. Apparently the police had already been there but, since it was Robin, everyone was helpful and collaborating. Strike wrote down everything they told them.

“We’ll have to retire from the competition after this tragedy,” the director told them, her eyes tearful and swollen.

“No,” Robin looked serious. “Give me another of the guys. Rick, he’s the best after Julio, we’ve danced before, we work great together. He’s the next on the list, right?”

“Yes, but honey you don’t have to...”

“I want to,” Robin insisted, her eyes full of determination as she looked at the other woman. “Julio was so excited about this, obsessed. He wanted to win. We got this far thanks to him, and now I’m going to finish this for him.”

“We still don’t know if the attacker may also be after you,” Strike intervened with a cautious tone. “It’s dangerous, Robin.”

“It’s the perfect chance to catch them, Corm. Have them come back, finish what they started. I’ll be ready,” Strike knew there was no way Robin would be convinced of backing off, not when she had that shark look. “This is for Julio. Win, catch a murderer. Police said they’re most likely dancers, because they knew where the cameras were and are the ones with a strong motive, so I’ll mix with them, attract the murderer to me. Make them feel at danger, and catch them. Plus, it’s an excellent opportunity to get testimonies and clues.”

“Fine,” Strike nodded. “But I’ll be accompanying you to every rehearsal, every show. And Anstis will have to put a uniform by the door of every place you’re dancing, always, keep all the doors watched.”

Robin nodded. This was war.

 

 

 


	35. He was a good man

Over the next few days, every single alibi of every single dancer in the competition and in Robin’s academy was confirmed, and the lists of suspects became significantly small, almost inexistent. By then, the semi-finals had arrived and it was time for the show, a battle to be in the finals. Robin had been nonstop between investigating, gaining every dancer’s trust and rehearsing with her new partner, Rick, an experienced dancer that had been in some of the most prestigious schools and had so much to teach Robin, who felt reasonably inferior but was impressively good, despite her lack of formation, stupefying everyone.

“Alright,” Strike pulled the zipper of Robin’s dress up and turned her around. “Beautiful. Now go out there, and kick ass.” They were in the changing rooms, and Robin looked way more serious than in all of her other performances. “Remember to smile big, uh? So no one notices you’re breaking your back.” Robin rolled her eyes and smiled a little.

“Thank you, Corm. For everything,” Robin said sincerely. “I just... I can’t believe I’m not dancing with her tonight or... ever again.” Her eyes got glassy and Strike hugged her tightly.

“Justice will be made. But right now, you need to get the win for him, okay? I’ll be keeping my eye out for anything suspicious while you perform. Good luck.”

Strike accompanied her to behind the scenario, applauding her entrance alongside Rick, the blonde dancer so different from Julio, but about as talented. Strike took his mobile and texted Nick, who informed him everyone was ready. Between the friends, they had organised so they could keep eyes everywhere and make sure no one tried to ruin the night. Strike kept his eyes open behind the scenario, looking at the performance from time to time through screens situated there, seeing Robin was doing amazingly. In Julio’s honour, they had done a routine he had been working on with Robin, of Argentine samba, an experimentation that was totally allowed and quickly earning people’s hearts, adding the drama of the dead partner.

The performance ended and Robin and Rick came backstage again, where Strike waited.

“Good job,” he smiled proudly at them and kissed Robin’s sweaty cheek before offering her a bottle of water. “We didn’t see anything suspicious.” Robin nodded, breathless. Whoever the murderer was, had left them alone for the night.

That night, Robin and Rick passed to the finals, the following week. Then they’d be competing against only one couple more. However, Robin wasn’t in the mood for celebrations, and Strike took her home, where they sat with a bowl of ice-cream.

“He was a good man,” Robin said suddenly, in the darkness of her flat, as they sat eating ice-cream while absentmindedly looking at the TV, both in more comfortable clothes. “He shouldn’t be dead. He should be dancing. It was his dream.”

“Life is short, Robin, remember?” Strike looked sadly at her. “But here we are, to make sure the bad guys always pay the prize.” Robin nodded. Strike wanted to kiss her, to make love to her, to assure her she’d never suffer so much again. He’d protect her. But he respected her wishes and her mourning of Julio, and just sat there as a friend. 

“You bet,” Robin looked at Strike. “We have one week.”

As the days passed, their investigation became frantic. The police had reached a dead-end and soon, they got to the same conclusion. There were no suspects. The murderer came unseen, left unseen, and no one that had motives had opportunity, and no one that had opportunity had a single reason or materials with which to kill Julio. Robin was reaching the tip of her frustration Everest and Strike was going crazy trying to find something, anything.

“Come on Robin, focus!” Rick reprimanded her finally as they rehearsed, the day before the finals. “The finals are tomorrow!”

“I know,” Robin sighed. “Can we stop and eat something?”

“Fine,” Rick smiled sympathetically at her. He walked to his backpack, on a corner of the room in the mountain of bags and jackets they had left there, and pulled out an apple. Robin turned to get her sandwich, prepared caringly by Strike that morning -extra big and extra full, because it was Strike after all- and when she bit it, she observed as Rick pulled a pocketknife out of his pocket, cutting the apple with it. Robin looked at the knife intently and her eyes widened. It was the exact same kind of blade that had killed Julio, which she knew because Strike and her and passed hours examining the pictures and drawing the type of knife and cut.

“Rick,” Robin commented. “When Julio died... you had gone to visit your girlfriend, right? You were with her all night?”

“Why are you asking? Police already cleared me out, don’t be crazy,” Rick smiled at her. “Yes, I was...”

“So have you been with her for long?” Robin asked to dissimulate.

They talked about his girlfriend for a long time -she seemed submissive and uninteresting to Robin, and then Robin spotted a black sweat-shirt on the mountain of their things. It was Rick’s. Feeling her heart pounding, she came up with a plan. The next break they took, Robin faked shivers.

“Can I use your sweat-shirt? The jacket I brought is not very warm...” Robin commented. Rick, impatient with the rehearsal in which Robin didn’t seem concentrated enough for his ambition, nodded. Robin put it on and excused herself to use the bathroom. There, she found the first-aid box and took a bottle of hydrogen peroxide that, as every woman in the world probably knew, was excellent to clean blood-stains, even when they were a bit dry. She poured generous amounts of it over the sweat-shirt sleeves and saw how in some parts, white foam generated. “Blood.” She whispered. She texted Strike right away.

As they left the building, Robin was still wearing his sweat-shirt, and asked Rick to take it home, saying it was very cold for her. Rick rolled his eyes and accepted having it returned tomorrow. Robin ran with the sweat-shirt to the Met, where Anstis took it to check for blood and compare it with Julio’s DNA and Strike ran to the house of Rick’s girlfriend to make her crack.

“You know what I think, Olivia,” Strike commented, walking around her little flat. She had let him in after he had announced she was a suspect and she wanted to convince him she wasn’t. “I think maybe you didn’t do it. But I think you’re covering the person who did. We’ve found blood in Rick’s black sweat-shirt that coincides with Julio’s blood. Your boyfriend also happens to own a knife perfectly coincident with Julio’s wounds and, guess what? He had a motive, if Julio was out, Rick would be put to compete in his place, only having to pass the semi-finals and the finals. And if he wasn’t here, he had a chance.” Olivia looked at him all scared from the sofa. Robin had psycho-analysed her great. She was dependant of Rick, submissive, did anything her boyfriend said, but was a big coward. Soon, she was crying. Strike smiled in the insides.

“Rick is a good man!”

“I’m not asking how he is, I’m asking if you lied to the police and everyone else!”

“He’d never touch a fly!”

“You’re letting a murderer free!”

“You’re all wrong with him!”

“How many people have to die for you to stop protecting him?!” they looked at each other angrily, and Strike sighed. He pulled a photo from his pocket of Robin and Julio, grinning to the camera as they posed romantically, and shoved it in Olivia’s face. “This is Julio. He was thirty, just turned a month ago. He was sweet, generous, hardworking, fifth brother, coming from a small Argentine town. He arrived England to make his dreams come true. That girl is Robin, his girlfriend. They were secretly engaged, you know?” Olivia’s blue eyes widened in horror. “Now she’s dancing for him, and crying all through the night. They were in love. Your boyfriend destroyed this and I’m going to prove it with or without you, but if you collaborate now not only will you feel better, but you’ll get to redeem yourself for all your lives.”

“Okay...” Olivia started sobbing. “Rick was never here that night. And he could be violent, yes. He had been so pissed that Julio got picked and he didn’t. I hadn’t seen him in two days then and so one day he comes running saying he’ll take me on a romantic trip to the Bahamas if I just say he was here. He said police was trying to accuse him of something he hadn’t done!”

Strike looked at his watch. It was three in the morning.

“I need a written and signed confession, and also recorded.”

 

 

 


	36. The bad news

When the time to perform in the finals arrived, Robin was a wreck of nervousness and the tests to the sweat-shirt weren’t ready. The police got a warrant to register Rick’s flat while they performed, so the arrest would probably be produced after the show. Robin walked around the big, changing room, already wearing her skirt and her top -that only covered her boobs-, showing off her slight abs, her hair and make-up done and ready. Lucy and Ilsa sat in the room observing her walk around, the three nervously waiting for news from Strike.

As if on call, Strike burst into the room, making Robin jump from her seat.

“What happened?” Robin asked anxiously, but Strike had forgotten his brain, seeing Robin’s incredibly sexy look. “Corm! Stop thinking with your dick!” Strike snapped awake and nodded.

“Olivia, Rick’s girlfriend, confessed Rick wasn’t there and had resentment towards Julio, wanted to occupy his place,” Strike explained her. “The Met are with the sweat-shirt, but it could take a few hours still. They just got a warrant to register Rick’s place.”

“I’m going to have to dance with the guy who killed Julio?” Robin asked, indignant.

“Not just that, you better win,” Strike sighed. “Look, Robin... they’ll arrest him right after the show, okay? Just go and do your very best, we’ll take care of the rest. He may still be innocent.”

Robin was reasonably frustrated but, with her friends’ encouragement, she went on stage with Rick around an hour later, when their time came. They were rocking it. They moved flawlessly through the scenario, and she noticed her friends between the multitude, cheering out for her. It was seconds from the end of the dance that Robin realized Strike, Anstis and a couple other cops were standing right behind the curtain, on the side of the stage, looking at Rick, hidden in the dark. Strike locked eyes with Robin and nodded very slightly.

But that was all Robin needed. Her last dance move was jumping to be caught by Rick but, instead of that, she jumped like she had learnt in self defence, although she had never done that wearing such little clothing, and kicked Rick as hard as she could on the face, ignoring the shooting pain from it. The public got agitated in response, but she was seeing red. She got on top of Rick, who lied on the floor with his hands over his bleeding nose, and she started punching him on the face, in earnest. There was no pain. 

“You fucking asshole, how could you! He was a good man! He was our friend!” she shouted with tears in her eyes, Strike rushing to hold her back while the police arrested Rick. “You killed Julio, you son of a bitch!”

“Sh... calm down Robin, calm down. It’s over,” Strike rushed Robin out of the stage and into the changing room, where she cried in his arms. “The blood was Julio’s. His knife was found with dry blood still in some parts, so were his shoes. He has no alibi. He’ll be confessing shortly. It’s over Robin.” Strike said, his arms wrapped tightly around her. Ilsa, Lucy, Greg and Nick came into the room a couple minutes later, as Robin, more calmed down, controlled her breathing, still hugging Strike.

“They’re going to announce the winner.” Lucy told them.

“Won’t be us,” Robin said bitterly, flopping on a chair and cleaning her face with a tissue. “The last two performances were done with a murdered, we’re disqualified. Bye Julio’s dream.” Her voice sounded hoarse, her eyes looking sadly at the floor.

“Well the other couple majorly fucked up, one of them hurt their ankle mid-performance. They couldn’t continue.” Nick said.

Robin had to be on stage with the other couple for the delivery of the award like a champion, so the five friends accompanied her back onstage. Before, the presenters had announced Rick’s arrest for Julio’s death to the public and Strike had quickly bandaged Robin’s hand and wrist, that needed to be seen by a doctor. Her foot, however, seemed fine now.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the chief of the jury stood up. The three dancers stood nervously in the middle of the stage. “This has been quite an abnormal edition. A dancer was killed after the quarter-finals, someone who would’ve, without a shade of a doubt, been performing with Ms. Robin Ellacott tonight. The jury and I have decided that of all the couples we’ve seen, Julio and Robin have been the best dancers, and we’ve decided that, given the particularities of this edition, we won’t have in count that Julio couldn’t make it to the end. We’ve looked at the whole trajectory of all the participants, having in count Rion and Wanda’s big fail tonight, and decided that the best dancers of the entire competition, and therefore those who deserve to win, are Robin and Julio!” the public roared and Robin looked up with wet eyes. She couldn’t believe it. The other two dancers hugged Robin and congratulated them, and she accepted the little statue that represented her win. A microphone was put into her hand and she searched for Strike in the public. He smiled at her softly, making her feel braver.

“Thank you,” Robin said, her voice managing to sound firmer than she felt, looking nervously at the immense public and blushing. “But it doesn’t feel right for me to have this. This was Julio’s dream, his life was all about dancing. My life is about resolving cases, and doing this for a hobby. I wouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t for Julio and therefore, I’d wish to give this away to his family.”

**. . .**

As Robin changed back into her normal clothes, alone in her changing room, she started feeling bad. The stress from all those weeks, the emotional rollercoaster, and the physical exhaustion were taking the best of her, finally kicking in. She let herself flop on a chair, feeling suddenly dizzy and cold, and hugged herself. There was a knock on the door and Strike’s head peeked in.

“Jesus Robin, you look sick...” Strike murmured, rushing inside and standing in front of Robin, taking her face between his big hands to examine her. “You’re really pale. Have you eaten something?”

“I feel bad...” Robin murmured. Strike frowned. “Corm... Corm take me to the doc please. I’m not... this isn’t right.” She shuddered and closed her eyes, leaning her head against Strike’s lower belly, needing to support it somewhere. Strike took his phone and called Nick.

“Nick? We need to get Robin to the hospital, something’s wrong with her. Come and help me?”

In two minutes Nick was barging inside and taking Robin bridal style and to the car, where Ilsa waited for them. Lucy and Greg had already gone home to be with their sons. Strike flopped in the backseat next to Robin and let her use him for pillow and support, hugging her shivering body. Ilsa speed through the crowded streets of London towards the nearest hospital and was soon stopping by the Emergency entrance. Nick and Cormoran got out and Nick ran inside the hospital to get a stretcher, while Cormoran helped Robin out of the car. She was complaining of abdominal pain and Strike worried she was having an ulcer after so much stress. While Ilsa drove away to the parking lot, Nick ran out of the hospital followed by a couple doctors wheeling a stretcher, and Robin was helped to lie down on it.

“Don’t leave my side,” Robin begged Strike, scared, reaching to grab his hand. The hospital was particularly scary during the night, when the Emergency Room was fuller than usual with patients that looked to be in nasty business, and the lights were purely artificial. Strike took her hand between his ‘big hairy mitts’, walking by the stretched as fast as he could, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“I’ve got your back,” Strike assured her trying his best to sound calm and confident.

Since Nick was a gastroenterologist, once they reached one of the ER booths he gently lifted Robin’s shirt and felt Robin’s stomach with his hands, but it didn’t seem to be the source of the problem, and she was feeling worse each passing minute. Her liver, intestines and other abdominal organs also felt fine to the hand, but he ordered some tests anyway, since this was casually his hospital.

“Don’t worry Robin, you’ll be alright,” Nick reassured Robin as they wheeled her to another room for a scan, Nick having made sure Strike was allowed to ‘hop along’.

“Nick,” Robin suddenly had an idea and used her free hand to forcefully grab Nick’s shirt. “I may be pregnant,” Nick’s eyes widened. “Just don’t bother with scans, take an ultrasound. Please.”

Strike sat by Robin’s bed as they waited in a room for the gynaecologist to come. In the meantime, a doctor took care of her hand, since when she punched the fucker she had done a small fracture in her knuckles, and had it put in a cast. Robin was nervous and in obvious pain, but she insisted it wasn’t bad enough for drugs. She didn’t want anything going into her bloodstream until they were sure about whether she was pregnant or not.

“I’ve drank alcohol,” Robin murmured, looking at Strike, who to her represented stoicism, stability and comfort, regardless of everything. “What if I was pregnant? I should’ve taken an ultrasound after the condom incident. Why didn’t I do that?” Ilsa, sitting on the other side of the bed, stroked Robin’s cheek softly.

“Robin,” Strike used one of his enormous hands to brush her hair away from her forehead, leaving his hand there. “It’s going to be okay. If you are pregnant, is no longer than a month, many women don’t suspect they’re pregnant until a couple months, which means they drink alcohol while pregnant and the babies come out alright. Besides, you barely drink and you’re a healthy young woman, if there’s a baby, I’m sure it will be alright. You’ve had enough on your shoulders to think of ultrasounds, sweetie. I could’ve told you to take one and it didn’t occur to me either.”

Then, the door opened and Nick came followed by a woman in her early forties.

“Robin, this is Doctor McKenna, she’s the gynaecologist.”

The doctor proceeded to do the ultrasound as Robin didn’t mind for her friends to be in the room, and the doctor was soon frowning at the screen.

“You are pregnant,” the doctor said. Robin’s breath caught in her throat and she looked at Strike, who kissed her forehead reassuringly. “But... I’m afraid I have bad news, Ms. Ellacott. You cannot have this baby. In fact, we need to perform an abortion immediately.”

“What? Why?” Robin panicked looking at the doctor.

“Calm down Robin, just breathe,” Strike said softly, squeezing her hand.

“I’m sorry,” Doctor McKenna looked sympathetically at Robin. “You have what is called an ectopic pregnancy. The foetus is inside your left fallopian tube, right by the entry of your uterus, yes, but still in a bad place. That’s why you’re feeling unwell, but thankfully is still early and the tube hasn’t ruptured as it could do, provoking a major medical emergency. Your life is at risk each passing minute you’re pregnant and the foetus’ life cannot continue. We can’t move it and if it keeps growing, your fallopian tube will rupture, the foetus’ life will be impossible to save and then your life will be in very serious danger too. I need you to understand that there is nothing we can do for that foetus, but we can still save you.”

“This is my dead friend’s baby,” Robin hissed, her eyes glassy. “There has to be a way to save it, it cannot die, it’s all there’s left!”

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Ellacott, but there really isn’t...”

“Do some research! If there isn’t a way, _invent_ it, but you save my baby!” Robin shouted at the doctor. “Maybe you can take the foetus out and implant it in another woman, or in my uterus, I don’t know but you didn’t study _years_ of medicine just to tell me my friend died and so will his only child and there’s nothing you can do, because that’s fucking bullshit!” 

“Ms. Ellacott,” Doctor McKenna’s blue eyes looked seriously at Robin’s, her tone stern but caring at once, like a mother. “There are thousands of doctors right now all over the world trying to fix these things, millions of research being made, tons of failed attempts. One day, there will be a solution but unfortunately, it won’t come in time to save this child. I’m so sorry that things are so difficult in your case, but there really isn’t time to wait, or your life will be in great risk, it already is in a serious degree of risk. We need to remove it _now_ , without waiting for the sunrise, alright?”

“The tube hasn’t ruptured,” Robin argued, boldly. “That means there’s still time. I’m only five weeks pregnant, the foetus is minuscule, there’s still time before it grows enough to cause trouble. I’m in the hospital, when that happens I’ll be attended in seconds and it will be alright, but if we wait until then we’ll have weeks yet, that way if tomorrow someone comes with a solution...”

“Ms. Ellacott there might be days or weeks until it ruptures, but the sooner we remove it the better the recovery will be, less invasive the process, better are your chances of carrying out a successful pregnancy later in life and,” Doctor McKenna explained patiently. “If you know you’re five weeks, that means in only one week your foetus will have a heartbeat. If a solution hasn’t come up by then, are you sure you want to have it removed when it has a beating heart, amongst other important organs?” Robin’s eyes widened and she looked at Strike in panic. Strike looked sadly at her, feeling angry at heavens for doing this to her. He knew the predicament and he knew she knew he knew. He had held his dead baby daughter in his arms, he knew what it was like, he knew the pain of losing a child, and he knew she loved this child already and she couldn’t, for the life of God, let Julio’s child go like this. He was dead, but he had meant a lot to Robin, even if she wasn’t in love. She cared for him, of course she did. And she’d care for their child too.

“Doctor McKenna, guys...” Strike breathed out. “Let me have a word with Robin in private, okay? Five minutes.” They nodded and left the room. Robin looked at Strike and started crying, seeing his resolve in his eyes.

“No, Corm, no, come on...” she sobbed out. “You have to be on my side! You have to!”

“And I am,” Strike kissed her hand between hers and sat on the verge of the bed, leaning forward to hug her without her having to sit up. “I know, Robin, I know this is an incredible blow. I can’t imagine your pain, but I know the pain of having an actual baby, die. Look, Julio cared so much about you, he would want you to save yourself, he would hate you if you put yourself in such danger, even for the baby. Julio would _hate_ it, Robin. And if this was my child? I’d be kicking your ass just for even thinking of waiting a minute longer. If there is an opportunity to save one of you three, then we need to take it, Robin, not send you all to die,” Robin cried in his arms and he just squeezed her tightly. “Listen to me, Robin. I know you love this child, so let it go. Don’t do this when it has a beating heart, because the knowledge that its heart was beating already and that it’s your fault, and only yours, that it got to that point in his development, knowing it was going to die either way and you had a choice of doing it before they grew more, will kill you.”

When the others came back inside, Robin was calmed down, between Strike’s arms, sitting up in bed. He had moved to sit beside her, his arms around Robin as she supported against his chest. She looked pale and exhausted beyond belief, which was how she honestly felt, so she just nodded at the doctor.

“She’s going to let you take it out now,” Strike told Doctor McKenna, who nodded.

“Good,” the doctor looked then at Robin, who looked at her with tears in her eyes.

“Will it feel something?” Robin asked tearfully.

“No, it doesn’t even have a brain, spinal cord or nerves to detect pain, so I’m certain it won’t feel a thing. It probably isn’t even conscious of being alive, is just living cells,” Doctor McKenna comforted Robin, her voice soft and peaceful. Robin nodded. “Now, there are two ways of doing this, with meds, which is using several injections of methotrexate, a med that will stop the cells from growing and make your body absorb the pregnancy, done at home for several days. Or with a laparoscopy, which is a minimally invasive surgery in which we’d do one or several tiny incisions in the lower part of your abdomen to introduce a micro camera and tools and get it out,” Robin nodded in understanding.

“So which one do we use?” Robin asked.

“It’s up to you,” the doctor said. “Methotrexate gives better chances of a successful pregnancy in the future, is absolutely non-invasive, will be done with this in a few days. But it has several side effects such as nausea, vomiting, dizziness, diarrhoea, mouth and lip ulcers or significant abdominal pain for a few days,” Doctor McKenna continued to explain. “On the other hand, the surgery is slightly invasive, you’ll have to stay in the hospital until around lunch-time or tomorrow at most, will be done with this in around an hour in the theatre, under general anaesthesia and it doesn’t have side-effects, but might lower a little your chances of a successful pregnancy in the future. Since your symptoms are somewhat severe already, I would recommend surgery and get it done with, instead of dragging this more days while you’re suffering mentally, psychologically and physically. Just rip the bandage. But it’s up to you.”

Robin breathed in deeply and nodded.

“Alright... look, I’m seriously exhausted right now. Just tell me more about the surgery, I could use a nap.”

“Well, it’s a very simple procedure. First, general anaesthesia will be given to you through a mask and painkillers will be pumped in your bloodstream through an IV in one of your arms so you’re free of pain when you wake up after an hour on a metal table. Then, we’ll do a small, 0.4 or 0.6 inches incision around your navel and introduce a thin tube through which a small camera and other micro tools will go in, so I can see everything in a TV monitor clearly during the surgery and operate on you. We’ll get the foetus out through the tube, or through other incisions if it was necessary, examine your fallopian tube to repair any possible damage that’s been done and, if we see it adequate, we’ll remove that tube, as long as the other one is healthy. Then we’ll stitch you up, put a dressing over the wounds and put you in a room to wait for the anaesthesia to wear off.”

“Don’t take away the fallopian tube,” Robin asked. “Unless is really bad, just leave it there, okay?”

“Alright,” Doctor McKenna nodded. “So are we doing this?”

“We are,” Robin breathed out. “Is it okay if Cormoran stays with me during the surgery? I know I’ll be sleeping but...” she looked at Strike, who nodded. “I’d feel better knowing he’s gonna be there holding my hand.” She blushed as she said so and Doctor McKenna smiled a little.

“Sure, he can sit with the anaesthesiologist next to your head.”

The doctor went to get things ready and get the forms for Robin to sign, and Ilsa and Nick kissed Robin for good luck and left to wait in the cafeteria. Strike held Robin in her arms until it was time to go.

 

 

 


End file.
